All Their Differences
by jamesgatz1925
Summary: Over the years, John and Sherlock have picked up on all of their differences. Some content not suitable if you get offended easily. I do not own these characters
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock and John have an obvious height difference. Sherlock is 6 feet tall, taller with certain shoes on, and John is barely 5'7'' on a good day. It didn't often bother John, he did like that Sherlock was taller. And Sherlock liked to have that obvious sense of control over John, feeling taller made him feel like the boss, even though John is almost five years older than he.

Every once in a while, John would have trouble reaching for things that Sherlock purposefully put in the high shelves, and John would get huffy and angry and call Sherlock childish while asking his assistance to retrieve said item.

"Sherlock!" John would call into the living room, where Sherlock was hacking away at his keyboard, "Sherlock, you overgrown child, come help me!"

"Do what?"

John would mumble under his breath, "Get a mug off the top shelf."

"What? I couldn't hear you."

"Come get this _fucking _mug off the top shelf!" John yelled at his beloved Sherlock.

Sherlock laughed. He would laugh for as long as it took John to punch him or pinch him to get him to stop. Sherlock would finally get off the floor, from laughing so hard, and go to the kitchen to help John.

"It's not funny, Sherlock. It hurts my feelings, and-"

"I'm sorry, John, I just try to have some fun with you. You're so cute when you're huffy and angry with me."

"I'm not trying to be cute, Sherlock, I'm trying to have tea and you deprive me."

Sherlock reached high into the cupboard, making his t-shirt ride up over his belly button, and John loved that part. He stared at Sherlock's stomach, a part of Sherlock he loved. His hip bones stuck out just enough to make a small space between his pants and his skin when he sucked in, but when he was relaxed there was enough muscle to make the v-shape at his lower abdomen. John loved it.

This could be an arrangement John could get used to; Sherlock hiding his mugs in a top shelf, Sherlock's laugh when he knew he had gotten John, John receiving a free view of Sherlock's wonderful stomach, and all the kisses John received after Sherlock knew he maybe pushed John too far.


	2. Chapter 2

John likes showers and Sherlock likes baths. No, no. John likes quick showers that are just long enough to get himself effectively clean, probably taught to him by his time in the military. Sherlock, however, likes to _sit _in hot water and, sort of, float around a bit while he thinks about the case or he's bored. He pretends he's getting clean, which he's not, and basically he's too lazy to _stand _in the shower.

But today, John was trying to get Sherlock to actually bathe, as in, wash his body, his hair, his armpits, and his feet, which always smelled particularly odd. John didn't know why, Sherlock probably soaked them in some concoction he made himself. They didn't smell bad, but they didn't smell like soap. So, every other day John would try his hardest to get Sherlock to really bathe.

"Come on, Sherlock, just tilt your head back. I'll do it for you."

"Leave me alone, John."

"You cannot possibly think that sitting in your own filth is getting you any more clean than not bathing at all."

Silence. A lot of silence. And staring. John stared at him with an annoyed face, a face he often gave Sherlock. Sherlock liked that face because it meant John actually _saw _him. Others would just roll their eyes and walk away, but John cared enough to give Sherlock the certain look that said, "I see you, darling, and even though I think you're being ridiculous, I still care enough to stand here and give you this look until you do as I say."

Usually Sherlock complied after the look was given, probably because as much as he liked the look, he knew John didn't.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered as he tilted his head backwards and closed his eyes.

"I know."

"Do you, John?"

"I do, Sherlock."

"Then why do you make me do this?"

"Because, as the one sole person that has to share a bed with you, I'd appreciate it if you didn't smell like dirt and sweat. Stale dirt and sweat, that is. What do you do while I'm at work? Play around a play-ground and sand box? Go down the slide? "

"I'm not a child, John."

"You're certainly not a 35-year-old man."

John scrubbed Sherlock's scalp, which Sherlock loved. If he could die like this he'd be happy. He was never more relaxed or empty headed, which was a strange and unnatural thing for him, and he loved it.

John loved scrubbing Sherlock's scalp because he liked taking care of Sherlock. He liked to make him tea and clean up his messes, he liked to wash his hair and his feet and _other areas _that always end up being touched after Sherlock is as relaxed as he can be and everything is as un-relaxed as it could be.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock likes attention, but John does not. This meant almost constant public embarrassment when they weren't on a case and Sherlock got bored. Sherlock would make it his goal to be as ridiculous as he could be to test how long it would take John to get up and walk away.

One time, this time, they were on the Tube and Sherlock was moment by moment, inch by inch, scooting closer to John. He put his arm around John, his hand clenching John's opposite shoulder. John's cheeks turned red in an instant. Not only did he not like public displays of affection, but he also didn't like when Sherlock acted this way _for fun. _

Five minutes later, John shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, stop, please."

The lady across from them looked up from her phone and watched curiously. Sherlock knew three other people on the train were watching, just to see what Sherlock would do next.

He looked at John, then at John's hand, then grabbed John's hand. John let out a breath of uncomfortable air, and shifted in his seat again.

"Stop it."

Sherlock leaned in to John and whispered in his ear, "People are watching, John. You don't like attention?"

John shook him off and stood quickly. "No, no, no. You sit here, I'm going to stand over there." And he did.

Sherlock smiled and a few people chuckled; his mission was accomplished.

Their stop came and they both got off separately. John walked on, not waiting for Sherlock, and Sherlock slowly walked behind him with no agenda to keep up. When they got to 221B, John opened the door and closed it before Sherlock could get inside.

When Sherlock got to the top of the stares, the door was shut and locked. He knocked.

"John? John, open the door!"

No answer.

"John, come on, I'm sorry, I was just having a bit of fun!" Sherlock's finger stroked the wood in front of his face. "I'm sorry!"

No answer.

"John, I will break this door down."

No answer.

Shower.

"Oh, come on." Sherlock whispered to himself.

In five minutes, Sherlock was in the apartment. It wasn't the first time he'd broken into the apartment, the first time was three months ago when John was asleep and he really needed to use the toilet, and the second time was three weeks after that when he locked himself out when he went to buy milk, which he'll never do again.

Ten minutes after he broke into the flat, he was undressed and apologizing to John against the shower wall.


	4. Chapter 4

John's room was _always _messy, but Sherlock's was always clean. This was for three specific reasons.

**1. **John liked having his own space so he liked keeping it any way he pleased. He hadn't had his own space in years, from being in the service, and for those years everything had to be _perfect. _But now he didn't have to, so he kept it how he pleased.

**2. **Sherlock's room had hardly anything in it because he kept all of his _crap _everywhere throughout the apartment. Sherlock had a bed, a side table, a chair, and three shelves hanging on the wall next to the window. On the shelves were random keepsakes from the cases, including the pink phone, a can of the yellow spray paint, John's ear wire from when he was strapped to Moriarty's bomb, and also his skull, which John begged him to keep out of the living room.

**3. **Sherlock never took his belongings back to his own room after occupying John's room. He'd never take the dirty clothes that John stripped off him every night, he never took the papers he'd read after John's gone to sleep, John's lucky he even took his laptop back to the living room or his room. Half of the reason John's room was messy, it was because of Sherlock.

But John didn't particularly mind. He liked his room, his small area in the flat he occupied with the best man on the planet. Anything Sherlock brought home was left in the living room, unless he wanted to keep it close to him in his room. Often John slept in Sherlock's bed for this reason. Sherlock brought him home and kept him safe in his room just like his other prized possessions.

The last one bothered John more than he showed. More than half of the stuff in his room was Sherlock's. This would be annoying when Sherlock would hurry around the flat trying to find a certain thing but couldn't and it ended up being in John's room. This usually happened with clothes.

"John, where is my blue scarf?"

"Your blue scarf?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

"I have no idea."

"Can you find it?"

"Is there any reason you can't?"

"My neck is too cold."

Two hours later it was found on John's bedroom floor.

"This wouldn't happen if you took your stuff out of my room." John said.

"This wouldn't happen if you cleaned up your room." Sherlock said.

"This wouldn't happen if you didn't leave your stuff in my room." John said.

"This wouldn't happen if you just got me undressed in my own room." Sherlock said.

"Sorry, I like to sleep in my own bed after."

"So don't complain that my stuff is in your room. Why would I go to my own room and leave you alone?"

"All I ask is for you to take it out when you're done."

"Why don't you just stay in my room?"

"I like my bed."

"Why don't you…"

Silence.

"What, Sherlock?"

"…move your bed into my room." He looked at John with his big gray eyes that were sparkling with the pathetic, almost fearful, look in his eye. He bit his lip and tilted his eyebrows up, trying to look as pathetic as possible.

"Oh, don't give me that look. What, do you think I'll say no?"

"Well," Sherlock looked down.

"That's fine, Sherlock. I never got why we have separate rooms anyway." He tilted Sherlock's chin up towards his, "And this way, maybe we'll only have one messy room."

Wrong. The mess continued. Now _their _room was always messy.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sleeps in and went to sleep late, John went to sleep at a normal hour and wakes up early. This wasn't a problem before they slept in separate beds every night, but more recently it's been, sort of, just annoying. Sherlock lost out of hours of John time each night, and John lost out on Sherlock time each morning.

Sherlock always went to bed late because he liked the night better. That was no secret. He liked to be alone at night and bask in the moon, rather than the sun. He liked the sounds of sleeping London and the light of London night lights. He liked hearing John's sleeping breaths and feeling his warmth. Sherlock wished he could sleep when John slept, to be awake when John was awake, but his body and mind just could not do it.

John would wake up around 6 AM, usually just out of habit. He had to be _very _tired to sleep past 6 AM. He'd wake up and turn over to see Sherlock's sleeping face right next to his own pillow. He'd smile.

"Good morning, my love."

Sherlock could hear him, he could hear everything in his sleep. He'd wrap his arms around John's waist and pull John close.

"No, Sherlock, I've got to take a shower."

Sherlock pulled tighter.

"Fine, twenty minutes."

John might have fallen asleep for an hour.

"Ok, I have to get up, I need to shower."

"John," Sherlock whispered, "What would it take to keep you in bed until I wake up?"

"You going to sleep when I do."

"No, I mean now."

"I don't know, you'd have to persuade me."

Sherlock rolled on top of him and instantly stuck his tongue in John's mouth.

"How's that?" Sherlock asked, gasping for air.

"Are you still asleep?"

"I might be." Sherlock kissed John again while pulling John's underwear down to his knees.

They stayed in bed for another two hours, and after that Sherlock knew how to keep John in bed.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock likes fast, current music, John likes slow classical music. Actually, John likes when Sherlock plays the violin for him at reasonable hours during the day. John would sit and read while Sherlock plucked away, it was therapeutic time for both of them.

For Christmas, John wanted to get Sherlock something he thought Sherlock would enjoy, something he didn't have, and something that could keep him entertained when John wasn't around: An iPod.

"Really, John? What am I going to do with this?"

"Play music on it."

"Do I look like a teenager to you?"

"Harry has one. And she's about three months older than you."

Sherlock gave John his best straight, annoyed face.

"I'll take it back if you want me to, I just thought, well, actually, do you even like music? I mean, I know you like your violin and Mycroft's piano, but _music_. Do you like music? Geez, all right, you're right, I'll take it back."

"No!" Sherlock stopped John's hand before it reached the iPod. "No, John, don't be that way. I'll make use of it somehow, I promise. Thank you."

Three days later, while John was at work, Sherlock was looking up applications to get on his new iPod. He was no idiot to technology, he ran his own website, for god's sakes, but he did need some help in the app. department.

And music. What music was he going to download? Mycroft knew John was going to get Sherlock an iPod, so Mycroft took the liberty of getting Sherlock $100 in iTunes cards. Sherlock was just unsure of how to spend it.

So Sherlock started at the obvious interests: The Beatles. He'd liked them as a kid, he was not a complete idiot. He downloaded each of his favorites and thought of more artists.

Next were The Rolling Stones, but only a few of theirs. Then, he sat staring at the screen for half an hour, racking his brain for music. Any music. Suddenly, his head started bopping. A tune popped in his head and he couldn't figure out what it was.

"_No you boys never know, oh no you boys will never know-_Franz Ferdinand!" He exclaimed to himself. He smiled in his excitement and typed on the computer.

Then a new song popped into his head. "_Last night, she said, oh baby- _The Strokes!"

For the next two hours, songs popped into his head, one after the next, and he would type away.

"_Hey Flathead, don't check me in, well hers is a tonic and mine is a-_The Fratellis!"

"_You use your heart as a weapon, and it hurts like-_Coldplay!"

"_Starlight, I will be chasing your starlight-_Muse!"

"_Ohhh, I tried to get to my taxi, the man in the track suite attacked me-_Kaiser Chiefs!"

"_Joanna drove slowly in to the city-_Vampire Weekend!"

"_Like a riot, like a riot ohh-_Phoenix!"

"_At my show on Monday, I was hoping someday-_The Kooks!"

"_I said I bet that you look good on the dance floor-_Arctic Monkeys!"

The list was endless. He ran out of the gift card within an hour, and after that he used $178 of his own money. He was on a roll.

Finally, his mind stopped and he was content with the nearly 300 new songs he had on his shiny new iPod.

Then, he realized apps. will work even with music playing. So, for the next four hours, he sat on the floor, against an electrical outlet, playing Angry Birds and listening to his music. His head bopped up and down with the beats, his curls flopped about away from his head.

When John got home, Sherlock was in the same spot on the floor. He hadn't moved since he sat, he hadn't eaten that day, he hadn't bathed, not that John expected him to, and he was naked. No, no. He had underwear on.

"Sherlock?" John asked as he walked into the flat and saw his lovely boyfriend sitting next to a power outlet.

Sherlock didn't answer. His white ear buds were still stuck into his ears.

"Sherlock?" John asked while kicking at Sherlock's shin.

Sherlock removed his ear bud. "What?"

"Have you been sitting here all day?"

"What time is it?"

"4 O'clock."

"Then, yes."

"You couldn't have put pants on? Or a shirt?" It's not like John minded. John was now staring at the way Sherlock's stomach creased while he was sitting hunched over like that, and trying his hardest not to look directly at Sherlock's navy blue underwear.

"I just, I was, uh, I was making use of my gift, and, I, uh, got distracted."

John chuckled. He never thought a gift would consume Sherlock this much, but for the next four days, all Sherlock did was play with his iPod.

"Sherlock. It's time for bed."

"No."

"At least turn it down."

"No."

"Please?"

"John. The point of _fast _music is to play it _loud._"

"Then, play slow music."

Sherlock stared at John. "Are you serious?"

"You don't like slow music?"

Sherlock stared at John again.

"But you play the violin like a god."

Sherlock kept staring at John.

"I just don't like fast music."

Sherlock slanted his eyes and stared, almost angrily, at John.

"And _you think _you're an _adult_ that likes _adult _music." John chuckled.

"I can like young music."

John laughed. Sherlock didn't like to feel so _old. _

So, for the next week and a half, Sherlock played his music to only himself, using the ear buds that came with the iPod. He played it during meals, going to sleep, on the Tube, in a taxi, walking down the street, any time. He even played it while he soaked in the bath. He ignored John, which John hated.

On the final day, John walked into the living room to see Sherlock dancing around in his underwear, the white ear buds plugged into his ears, and the wire coming from…_somewhere._

"What are you doing?" John called to him.

Ignored.

"Sherlock, are you really wearing pink underwear?"

Ignored.

"Sherlock, you're acting like a child."

Ignored.

"Fine, Sherlock, play your music whenever you want. I don't care."

Ignored. John walked over to Sherlock, a little too curious as to where that wire was, and tugged at his underwear.

"Wow, John, what are you doing!" Sherlock jumped backward and pulled the ear bud out of his ear.

"I just wanted to see where you managed to put your iPod."

Sherlock lowered his underwear to reveal the iPod duct taped to his oddly hairless hip, no doubt he shaved _everywhere _for this purpose.

"You know, they make these straps to hold your iPod."

"I know, but then I'd have to get dressed and go to a store, and this was just much easier."

"Shaving your whole body was easier?"

"Yes, don't you like it?"

He did, oh did John like it.

"Then, don't complain." Sherlock said before John could answer.

And that is how Sherlock got John to let him play his young, fast music whenever he wanted.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock likes to travel, John doesn't.

"Please, John. Just for a few days."

"No. I don't want to go to Paris. I've traveled enough for my lifetime."

"But there's a nice murder to solve."

"Sweetie, I don't want to go to Paris. And I certainly don't want to go to Paris to solve a murder."

"But you like murders."

"I like you, and that's not making me want to go to Paris any more than I wanted to five minutes ago."

"Oh, pleasant, you like me today."

"I like you every day."

"Then, come to Paris with me."

"No."

The next morning, Sherlock was rushing around their bedroom while packing for Paris, which he was to leave for in one hour.

"How long will you be gone?"

"A few days. Five, probably."

"_Five _is more than a few."

"It's not too late to come with me."

"No."

"Then, stop complaining." Sherlock leaned over John and gave him a quick kiss before pulling papers off the bedside table.

"What time are you leaving?"

"Mycroft will be here in one hour."

"Just enough time to…" John's voice trailed off as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and pulled Sherlock between his legs.

"No, no. I've got to go. I need to get ready and-"

"Why are you never this excited when _I _want to do something?"

"You weren't excited when I told you about Paris."

"All right, good point." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and kissed his neck.

"I have to go."

"I'm not holding you here." John licked Sherlock's neck. "How is it that even when I _know _you haven't bathed in about three days, you still manage to taste delicious?"

"Because you're horny."

"If you lived with you, you would be too." John's licks traveled down to Sherlock's chest, then back up to his throat.

"Fine, fine. But make it quick." Sherlock pushed John onto the bed and straddled his legs.

_Six _days later, and not much contact since he left, Sherlock was exiting Mycroft's car at 221B. It was the middle of the afternoon, so Sherlock knew John was at work. He got in the house and found a note that read:

"_Sherlock, I'll pick up dinner on the way home. I missed you, don't leave again." _

Sherlock smiled and stuck the note in his pocket, then waited and waited and waited for John to get home.

John came home two hours later, and Sherlock could hear him racing up the stairs.

"Sherlock, Sherlock are you home yet?"

John barely had the door open before Sherlock's tongue was nearly at his throat. John was caught off guard at first, but in seconds he dropped the food and wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock's waist, puling him closer and making Sherlock push him against the door. They stayed like that for a minute, maybe five, alright, ten, and finally John pulled away and spoke.

"Don't leave again, alright?"

"But I solved the case, John. It was perfect. Brilliant, just brilliant."

"No, I don't want you to leave again. I missed you too much and-"

Sherlock cut him off by kissing him again. Sherlock would never, _ever _get used to being missed, something he'd never felt before in his life.

The next time Sherlock decided they needed to travel, they did. John huffed and gave Sherlock the silent treatment for nearly a whole day, but that was better than being apart, with minimal contact, for six.


	8. Chapter 8

John likes to eat real meals, Sherlock likes to eat snacks or not eat at all. This used to not really be an issue. When they first met, the first night they were colleagues, Sherlock didn't eat. He didn't eat on the next case, either, or the one after. He wouldn't eat for days, up to a week, at a time, and at first John wasn't bothered.

Nor did he want to push a grown man to eat when he didn't want to until they were _at that level. _

Sex came before _that level. _

No, Sherlock wouldn't often eat. But then he would get to the point that hunger was unbearable and he'd have to, against his own wishes. He would lay around lazily for a while, not like that was different, until John came in the room. Then, he'd whine.

"Jooooooooooooooohn."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm hungry."

"What would you like, my darling?" John's voice was _almost _mocking.

"One of those little cakes your sister brought from America, the chocolate one."

"You ate them all, Sherlock."

"No, no. I saved a few."

"Where did you put them?"

"I don't know."

John sighed.

You know when there's someone you care about more than yourself, and you'd do anything to keep that person happy and healthy, even if that meant destroying your entire flat just to find a measly Little Debby Snack Cake from America, all because this beloved hardly ate, so when he did eat, you let him have whatever he wanted? No? Well, this is how John felt. His heart jumped when Sherlock said he was hungry. This was one thing John could do for Sherlock that would make Sherlock _so _very happy. Sherlock could have asked John to hop on a plane to America to get more cakes and he would.

An hour later he found the secret stash of cakes, all kinds of cakes and cookies and candies that were hidden in a compartment in the book shelf.

"Geez, Sherlock. What else have you got hidden in this flat?"

"Nevermind." Sherlock's tone was distant and distracted. He took the bag of snacks and wrapped himself up on the couch.

Now, Sherlock didn't throw up often. Actually, the last time he can remember throwing up was on a plane back from Switzerland six summers ago. He didn't really like motion, plane and car and train rides often made him ill. But this moment was worse than throwing up on the plane, at this moment he felt like he was going to die and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"How many did you eat, Sherlock."

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

"A lot, ok? I don't know."

John looked at the bag that was once full of snacks and was now down 50%.

"Jesus, Sherlock. I could have _made _you something healthy and less…lethal."

"Shut up, John. I was hungry. Now I don't think I'll ever eat again, problem solved."

Sherlock threw up again. When he finished, John pulled him close and laid Sherlock's head on his own chest.

"Do you feel better?"

"A little."

"Would you like some tea?"

"No."

"Would you like anything particular?"

"Toothpaste."

John chuckled and handed Sherlock his toothbrush.

John remembered that this wasn't the first time Sherlock did anything like this. Sherlock actually did it often, mainly because he hated healthy food of any sort. No, no. He liked fruit, when they weren't sticky. So, he liked bananas and sometimes grapes and sometimes carefully eaten blueberries. And _canned _fruit, which John thought was rubbish. And he liked yogurt, but only plain yogurt with a little bit of flavoring. He hated the chunks. And he liked jam when he got to eat it off John's fingers. But he hated bread, meat, cheese, peanut butter, and spaghetti. So, really, a lot of the time Sherlock ate junk until he made himself sick to the stomach. But he never threw up from it.

John didn't like Sherlock's eating habits, but he knew Sherlock would have to fix this on his own, John couldn't push him into or out of anything. John left the bag of junk on the table, secretly and shamefully hoping that Sherlock would 'overdose' himself again into sickness.

Four days later, John returned home from work to find Sherlock asleep on the bathroom floor. Sherlock looked pale and very flushed, more than usual. His hair was slightly sticking to his head, probably from sweat.

John poked Sherlock's shoulder, "Sherlock, sweetie, wake up."

He didn't.

"Sherlock, come on." John shook him lightly.

"No, no. Let me die here."

"What happened?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. He looked so pathetic, John couldn't help but laugh.

"It's not funny, John! I ate the rest of the bag, ok? And I threw it all back up."

John laughed again.

"Stop it!" Sherlock exclaimed and stormed out of the bathroom, huffing and puffing and stomping and shaking all the way to his bed.

"Come on, Sherlock. It's funny. You're like a child." John laid next to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him, lightly stroking his stomach.

"How am I like a child?"

"They just want the taste, they don't look for consequences."

"Well, I never want the taste again. Ever."

"You're going to start eating healthy?"

"Or I won't eat at all."

"No, no. You're a grown man. You can eat healthy."

Silence.

More silence.

"Fine," Sherlock pouted, "As long as I never have to feel this way again."

John smiled.

He succeeded.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock likes to text, John does not. Well, no. John liked to send him simple texts like, "On my way home." or "Getting - for dinner."

But Sherlock liked to hold entire conversations instead of just calling John. John didn't mind if Sherlock called him while he was at work, he actually liked the chance to talk to Sherlock while he had some down time between patients. But Sherlock wouldn't call. He'd text.

And sometimes it was, well, rather at the wrong time.

"John, come home now. -SH"

"Why do you put your initials at the end of a text? I know it's you."

"Habit. -SH"

"Well, I'm busy. You can wait until I get off at 4."

"But I'm so booooooored. -SH"

"No. Busy. Wait."

Ten minutes later.

"I'm naked. -SH"

"So?"

"So, that doesn't make you want to rush home? -SH"

"No, Sherlock. You're often naked."

"But I'm…so ready. -SH"

"You're often that, too."

"You're no fun. -SH"

Seven minutes later.

"Please, John. -SH"

No reply.

Five minutes later.

"I'll do anything you want. -SH"

No reply.

Two minutes later.

"I'll cover my own body in strawberry jam and let you do whatever you please with that. -SH"

No reply.

Three minutes later.

"I'll cover your body in chocolate and lick off every bit. -SH"

No reply.

John thought he'd given up, and at this point it was just funny to John how desperate Sherlock was for anything to keep him busy. John didn't particularly feel wanted, so much as needed to keep Sherlock entertained. He chuckled and put his phone back in his pocket on time for a patient to walk in.

Six minutes later, John's phone beeped. He knew it was no emergency, but he checked his phone anyway.

"So, yeah," John was telling his patient, pulling his phone out of his pocket, "It looks like a small case of the flu," he selected to open the message, "A little bit of antibiotics from the pharmacy and," *choke*.

He read the message, "I'll suck you against the front door and not stop until you're completely satisfied…twice. Then, I'll satisfy you some more on the sofa, then the shower, then probably the kitchen table as you somewhat attempt to make dinner. -SH"

John turned his phone off and turned it on as he was packing up to go to lunch. He read seven messages Sherlock had sent of things he'd do to John if John went home right that moment.

So John wasted zero time. He got a taxi and forgot about lunch.

He walked into the flat to see Sherlock laying on the couch wearing one of John's faded gray t-shirts -that was too small- and a pair of red briefs.

"Oh, hello, John." Sherlock said, not looking up from his iPod.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Sherlock still didn't look up from his iPod.

"I rush home because of terribly erotic texts I get from you and all you say is hello?"

Sherlock very confusedly looked at John.

"Oh, no. Don't play dumb. I read the messages. They were from you, and I expect…well…"

"You came home at lunch not because you missed me and wanted to see me, but because you want sex?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"Then don't text me while I'm at work!"

Sherlock squinted his eyes and stared at John. "Fine."

"Are you kidding?"

"What are you angry about?"

"I rush home-" He breathed out, "You know what, never mind."

"No, what?"

"Don't text me during the day!"

"That's all you're angry about?"

"No!"

"Then, what John?"

"Just drop it."

Sherlock got off the couch and went to John. "Are you angry at what I said, and I'm not doing anything about it now?"

John wanted to feel Sherlock now. Sherlock was in one of his moods to withhold sex from John, and John hadn't touched him in almost two weeks. And here Sherlock was, half naked, in his shirt, and smelling of a mixture of faint soap and stale dirt. And for some reason it smelled so good.

"Just don't text me at work anymore, alright?"

"Even when I offer to suck you against the door?"

"No sucking is occurring at this moment, so you gave me false information and false hope. I don't like the distraction, and I don't like when I get embarrassed when I read a message with my patient in the room."

"When you get embarrassed, do your cheeks go red and your eyes sort of water?"

"I guess?"

"Ooh, I love that." Sherlock kissed John.

"Just don't anymore."

Sherlock kissed John again. In minutes, John was against the front door with his pants down.

Sherlock didn't stop the texts. When he wanted John home exactly at that moment, he knew just what to say and when to say it. And now, every time John hears his text tone, he gets a slight erection. Sherlock had won.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock has an abnormally cold body temperature, whereas John is abnormally hot. This really bothers Sherlock because now that him and John are close, he craves John's body heat. He feels warmer next to John, both physically and emotionally. This meant that he always wants to sleep extremely close to John, usually sharing a pillow with him instead of letting John be more towards the middle of the bed.

Which has not always been very…comfortable for John.

He is used to sleeping on a small bed, most commonly a cot, but sometimes he likes to just sprawl out on his own bed and not have any troubles.

Not when Sherlock's around. Sherlock will climb into bed and wrap his cold body around John, and John in turn would hold Sherlock close.

More than once, however, this hasn't worked out.

John began to get too hot with Sherlock directly next to him, so he scooted over.

And soon enough, John was trying to catch his balance on the edge of the bed.

And didn't succeed.

*Thud!*

"Ouch! Sherlock!"

"Mmmm?"

"Dammit, Sherlock! Scoot over!"

"Shush, John. I'm sleeping."

John picked up a pillow and hit Sherlock over the head with it. Sherlock jumped up.

"What was that for!"

"You pushed me off the bed!"

"I didn't mean to, John, come back-"

"I asked you to scoot over!"

Sherlock looked down at the bed, his outline about two feet from the edge of the bed, clearly not enough room for John.

"I'm sorry, John, I just-"

"No, I know, Sherlock. It's just, sometimes," John's voice was loud and strict, like he was scolding a little kid, "Sometimes I want my own space, do you understand? I know my life _fucking _revolves around _you _now, but-"

"I didn't know I was that much of a burden."

But he did. Sherlock had felt like a burden his entire life, except the moment he found out he was adopted and knew how much his mother loved him even though he wasn't really hers.

Sherlock looked sad. John's heart sank a little and he reached for Sherlock's face.

"No, Sherlock, that's not what-"

Sherlock stood up from the bed and grabbed the blanket that was on the edge of the bed. He wrapped it around his body and went to the door. Without looking at John, he said, "It's all right, John. I'll stay out of your way." He felt like all the warmth left his heart.

John laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He felt empty without Sherlock next to him, and he felt horrible for yelling at Sherlock. He turned sideways to lay on Sherlock's cold pillow. It smelled like him and even, somehow, felt like him.

On the couch, Sherlock was wrapped in his blanket and staring out the window. He was freezing, but he wanted to leave John alone. John hadn't yelled at him like that in a long time, and Sherlock felt bad for making John so angry. He never wanted to make John angry, he never wanted the fear that John was going to leave him. He loved John and he never wanted to be alone again.

For two hours, John laid awake in their bed. He didn't move for a while, trying to save the bit of bed that was warm, and he didn't want to make any noise to make Sherlock think he was awake.

John realized Sherlock must be freezing. Sherlock was abnormally cold blooded, and the heat downstairs wasn't on. He went downstairs to make sure Sherlock was all right.

Sherlock fell asleep after a while on the couch. He was tired and knew how to fall asleep without John because he'd slept alone for so many years before. He was wrapped in his blanket, trying to keep warm. John just stared at him for a minute or two. He could never look at Sherlock and not be in complete awe that this person was all his, and will only ever be his. He was so peaceful when asleep, and John thought he was most happiest when asleep, when his mind was at least partially turned off and he had no cares in the world.

"Sherlock, wake up."

"No."

"Why? Sherlock, baby, I'm sorry."

Something in Sherlock warmed up each time John used a term of endearment towards him. "I'm tired, John."

"I know, just let me apologize and I'll let you go back to sleep."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. John knelt next to the couch and laid his head on Sherlock's chest.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry that I yelled. I just don't like falling off the bed. And I was tired and grouchy." he took Sherlock's face in his hands, "I don't want to spend any minute ever making you feel like you're a burden. I didn't mean that." John reached up and kissed Sherlock, trying to make him feel as special as possible.

John climbed under Sherlock's blanket and held him close. Sherlock's warmth went back to his heart.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock is afraid of spiders, whereas John claims he isn't afraid of anything. When John found out Sherlock was afraid of spiders, it was like the greatest joke come to life.

They were in Lestrade's office discussing a case. John was watching Sherlock pace back and forth, his hand waving wildly in the air and mouth grinning with evil excitement.

"You really don't get it do you?" Sherlock snickered looked amused between John and Lestrade.

"No, no. Don't look at us like we're idiots. It's not like you're not going to explain anyway." Lestrade told him.

"The sister did it."

"What? Hang on, the sister? But she had nothing to do-"

"Oh my gosh, Lestrade! Don't you pay attention?"

Lestrade buried his face in his hands. Sherlock continued to talk while John looked blankly out the window. He was no longer concerned with Sherlock's words, Sherlock figured it out and it was Lestrade's job to arrest _whoever _killed the security guard.

"John?" Sherlock spoke. His voice was soft, he was done calling Lestrade an idiot.

"Mmm? Ready?" John looked back at Sherlock.

Before Sherlock could answer, John was on his feet and walking past Sherlock.

"John? What are you doing?" Sherlock followed John with his eyes, then noticed what John was going for.

There, on the wall, was a huge spider. Ok, not _huge. _But Sherlock thought it was huge. He stumbled backwards into a chair and almost knocking it over.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

John was at the wall picking the spider up with his bare hand.

"John, put it down."

"I will. Outside."

"Kill it, John."

"Why? It's just a spider."

"Kill it, John."

"Sherlock, you're looking more pale than usual." Lestrade said.

"Kill it, John." Sherlock's voice was shaky and deep.

Lestrade chuckled as Sherlock took another step toward the door. "Sherlock's afraid of spiders, John. Mr. Sherlock 'Not-Even-God-Is-Higher-Than-Me' Holmes is afraid of spiders."

"I am not."

John looked at Sherlock, who was now at the entrance of the door. He laughed and took a step toward Sherlock, spider in hand.

"No, no, John. Stop it."

Lestrade and John looked at each other and burst into laughter. John never thought he would ever find anything Sherlock is afraid of, but this was gold.

Two days later, Sherlock was being particularly annoying. He was bored and whiney and dirty and _so hungry _and John couldn't take it anymore. Sherlock was in the bath when John decided he was going to scared Sherlock.

He walked into the bathroom holding a menu for some take-out restaurant they usually eat. "Hey, Sherlock, do you want-" he looked up at the wall above Sherlock, "Oh my god, Sherlock, a spider!" John turned out of the bathroom and ran into the kitchen, knowing Sherlock was about to run out of the bathroom.

"Where!" Sherlock exclaimed, not waiting for the answer and jumping out of the water instead. He stumbled out of the bath, then fumbled to his feet and ran out of the bathroom. He made it barely into the kitchen when he slipped and fell onto his back on the kitchen floor.

John couldn't control his outburst of laughter. He didn't even turn around to look at Sherlock before he started laughing. He laughed for a good five minutes before he even looked at Sherlock, who was now slamming the bathroom door shut.

John went to the door, "Oh, come on, darling, I'm sorry! Open the door, I'm sorry!"

"I'm never coming out again, John!"

"I was just trying to have some fun!"

"It's not funny!"

"Come out, baby!"

"NO!"

"Sherlock," John's voice went low and became very 'scary'. "What if there's a spider in there?"

The door opened immediately. Sherlock was now wearing jeans, no shirt, and had a look of angry fear. John stood in front of the door.

"Let me go, John."

"Not until you give me a kiss."

"For what? Scaring me half to death, then letting me fall on the floor? Not-uh, John. No way. Move."

"I'm waiting."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and pulled him up, stepped far enough out of the doorway to slip past John, put John down, and walked away.

"Hey, not fair!"

"Not fair? THAT wasn't fair! That was just mean!"

John followed Sherlock into the living room. "I'm sorry, ok, Sherlock? I'm sorry and I mean that." He sat on the couch next to Sherlock's hips while Sherlock extended his body so John couldn't sit down.

"It was mean."

"I know, and I'm sorry." John touched Sherlock's stomach. "Why are you afraid of spiders anyway?"

"I…uh…I don't know! Why are you afraid of anything you're afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything." John said most confidently.

Sherlock stared at him straight faced, "You have to be afraid of something."

"I'm not, though."

"You have to be."

"I don't _have _to be."

"Everybody's afraid of something."

"Not me, I guess."

Sherlock continued staring at him.

"Sherlock, I invaded Afghanistan," John chuckled, "I think I'd know if I was afraid of something."

So, for the next two weeks, Sherlock made it his goal to find anything John is afraid of. He tested every hypothesis: birds, frogs, knives, the number 13, snakes, bugs, dogs, anything. But nothing proved to be what John was afraid of.

Finally, Sherlock gave up. He accepted the fact that he had the most courageous man in the world next to him every night.

After Sherlock gave up his search, he and John were on a case that was proving to be the second most dangerous case ever. They were two weeks in, and John let Sherlock go to a stakeout alone. Sherlock left at 6 PM, and when he didn't return John began to get concerned. Around 11 he phoned Lestrade.

"Have you heard from Sherlock?"

"No. Is he missing?"

"Kind of."

"He does that."

"I know he-" John breathed out, annoyed, "That's all right. I'll find him."

But John didn't find him. He wandered London for hours, going to places he thought Sherlock would be. When he didn't turn up, John sort of began to panic. He called Sherlock ten times.

John was on his way home when his cell phone rang. It was Sherlock's phone.

"Hello? Sherlock? Where are you? Are you all right?"

"John, I've been kidnapped."

"What? Where-how-what the hell?"

"I've got it under control, but I've been threatened with death if-"

"Sherlock, Sherlock!"

"Ouch, that hurt, you imbecile! Anyway, John, are you still there? Anyway, they want plane tickets out of London. And a million pounds."

"Wh-what?" John began to run back to the flat. He remembered the GPS system Sherlock had installed on their phones. John was to get on the computer and log into Sherlock's account, then he could find his phone, therefore find Sherlock. "Stay on the line, Sherlock, I'm coming."

"No, John, no time, I need si-seven plane tickets and the money, alright?"

"No, NO! Stay on the line!" John made it into the flat and was now trying to get his computer to open up the internet.

"John, there's no time, but listen, if I don't make it-"

"Don't, Sherlock, I'm coming!" John had the website open and was typing in Sherlock's cell phone number.

"Just remember that I love-"

John was typing in Sherlock's password, "john".

*Click*. As the phone hung up, the webpage to Sherlock's phone GPS opened. The dot blinked for a second, just long enough for John to see where it was, and then it was gone. He jumped out of his chair and phoned Lestrade.

"Greg, listen, Sherlock's been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped? Are you sure?"

"I just got off the phone with him. He's in some ware house about forty miles from me. I'll text you the address. Just hurry." John got in a cab and was on his way.

He arrived near the warehouse about the same time as Lestrade and the rest of the unit. John went over _almost _everything Sherlock told him, leaving out the personal details.

"How are we going to get him out?" John asked.

"I'm sending a team to each entrance of the building, and one is going into the building, here." Lestrade pointed at the spot on the blueprints. "This team, here," He pointed to another entrance, "Is going to basically split up to search each room."

"What if we don't find him? What if they-"

"We will, John." Lestrade placed a caring hand on John's shoulder.

John sat patiently against one of the police cars for two hours. He was panicked, his mind was racing with the wondering if Sherlock was alive at that moment, wondering if this afternoon would be the last time he'd ever see Sherlock, remembering the last thing he said to him, remembering the last time he touched him…

His phone rang. John looked around for a second, to see if he was hearing things, then he noticed everyone around him was now staring at him. He looked down at his pocket, it was glowing. He fumbled to his jeans and pulled out his phone.

"Hello? Sherlock? Hello?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

John sighed. He hoped so much that Sherlock would come over the phone.

Then, he did. "John." Sherlock sounded distant, maybe tired, maybe hurt. His voice just wasn't the same.

"Oh God, Sherlock, are you ok? Are you ok, sweetie?" John was breathing heavily and rubbing his eyes. He'd never felt so happy.

"Listen, John, I only have a minute or two. They're planning another murder tonight, the victim is already here. We're in room two-sixty-five, it's on the third floor-"

Gunshots. Loud gunshots. Everywhere around them echoed with the gunshots.

John looked up at the building, stood, and screamed into the phone.

"Sherlock, Sherlock!"

The men around John were all moving toward the building now. The phone was cut off and John was now on his knees on the ground. One of the women on the squad came to John and knelt in front of him.

"It's all right, John, we'll find him, Lestrade-"

"What if he's dead? What if he's dead and the last thing I said to him was 'You lazy sod, buy some milk.'? What if I didn't kiss him goodbye this afternoon? I didn't tell him I love him today."

"It's ok, John, we will find him."

Half an hour later, someone radio'd to Lestrade that they found room 265 and there were ten of them waiting outside now, and five of them were scaling the wall to the window up there. John's heart was racing, hoping Sherlock was all right.

Then, more gunshots were heard. John ran to the nearest entrance of the building to where the unit was invading. He and Lestrade stood close enough to see what was happening, but couldn't really see due to the fact that they were on the ground and all of this was happening on the third floor.

Then, the gunshots stopped, and so did John's heart. He thought for sure Sherlock was dead. With that amount of gunshots, he thought everyone was dead. Lestrade placed a hand on John's shoulder. Then, his radio sounded.

"Lestrade, sir?" Heavy breathing. "Sir, there are nine dead and thirteen alive."

"How many of ours dead?"

"Two."

John's heart broke into a million pieces. He was positive one was Sherlock, that's just the way this scene always plays out, isn't it?

Lestrade called for the rest of the crew to head into the building. He took John to a nearby ambulance to get a handle of himself. John sat and waited for a ride home.

A few minutes later, someone was shouting off in the distance of where John was. John stayed sitting, at first not hearing anyone around him.

"Damnit, I can walk on my own! Stop it, I don't want this blanket!"

John looked up, but didn't see anyone familiar. His breathing got heavy and he looked around.

"Stop it, stop taking-why are you taking my temperature? To make your position affective? God, no, go away! Where's John? I don't want my pulse taken!"

John stood and walked toward the entrance. His eyes were searching around for Sherlock, his heart was full of hope that Sherlock wasn't dead or wounded.

Finally, their eyes caught each other and John began, more or less, running at Sherlock. When they met, John's arms flew around Sherlock's shoulders and he pulled him as close as possible.

"Sherlock, oh my god, Sherlock. I was sure you were dead-"

"You had little faith in me." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and buried his face in John's hair.

"Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, John. Really."

John didn't care about public decency at this point. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's that it almost hurt. They were embraced for what felt like eternity, until Sherlock broke away, smirking.

"John Watson, were you scared?"

John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's, "I've never been more afraid in my life."

Sherlock's only wounds were a black eye and a gash in his forehead. Other than that he was fine, as smug as ever just to show that _he _found the murderers.

"I still don't see how you did all of this, you stop murderers and thieves on a weekly basis, you've come face to face with death loads of times, but you're afraid of spiders."

"They crawl. And make unwanted webs. And feel gross on your skin. And have eight legs. You? You're afraid of-"

"Of losing you, you git."

Sherlock smiled. He'd never felt so loved.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock does _not _go to the store. Ever. He doesn't like public places like stores. Too many people. Too many annoying people, like mothers and children. He does not buy milk. He does not buy beans. He does not buy bread. He does not buy John's jam. He does not buy tea. He does not buy anything.

John doesn't _really _mind all that much. Usually. _Sometimes _he gets tired of it. _Sometimes _he thinks it's a bit too much that Sherlock is a grown man that doesn't wash his own hair, or cook his own meals, or wake up at a reasonable hour, or doesn't even pick out his own clothes. John often wonders what Sherlock did before he moved in, but then John remembers that Sherlock probably lived with his mother until he was 25, then he spent all those years chasing that woman, Irene, around the world. He probably didn't need to worry about simple things like going to the store.

_Sometimes_ John would get annoyed with Sherlock not going to the store. So, John would set out to get Sherlock to go at least once a month. He'd start slow, by simply asking Sherlock to go to the store.

John and Sherlock were actually having a normal phone conversation while John was at work. "I've got a lot of patients this afternoon. Do you think you can go to the store for me?"

"For what?"

"Milk, bread, cheese, maybe…"

"No, I mean why would I want to go to the store?"

"To help me out?"

"Why?"

"Because you love me? I don't know, Sherlock. Please?"

"If I…have time."

"Alright, I've got to go. I love you."

"Mhm."

"Sherlock. I love you."

"Yes."

"Tell me you love me, Sherlock."

"Too many difficult tasks for one afternoon."

"Telling me you love me is too difficult?"

"Mmmmm."

"You are a child."

"Goodbye, John."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

John figured Sherlock did his one nice task for the afternoon. He wasn't going to hold his breath waiting for milk to be in the fridge that evening.

Two days later, John thought he'd be funny and leave Sherlock a note asking for him to go to the store.

He left one note. On the refrigerator.

"Sherlock, store? Love, John."

When John got home, he went straight to the fridge to check for milk. There was none, and the note was still there.

"Sherlock, didn't you see my note?"

"What note?"

"The one on the fridge."

"No. What did it say?"

"I asked you to go to the store."

"Why?"

"Not this again."

"I don't like stores, John."

"For me, Sherlock? Just once?"

"No."

"I understand. You don't love me."

"Don't be that way."

"Why can't you do just one thing for me?"

"I can do a lot of things for you. Just not go to the store."

"Fine."

Two days later, John decided he was going to be as annoying as he could be. He left notes everywhere. Multi-colored Post-It's were stuck everywhere in the flat, the multi-colored ones Sherlock hated the most.

There was one stuck to Sherlock's forehead, "Store."

There was one stuck to Sherlock's phone, "Store."

There was one stuck to Sherlock's laptop, "Store."

There was one stuck to the screen of Sherlock's laptop, "Store."

There were at least fifteen more around that said, "Store."

Then, he got creative.

There was one stuck to Sherlock's favorite mug, "Tea."

There was one stuck to the shower curtain -strategically placed with an item John wanted least, in assumption that Sherlock wasn't going to see the shower curtain that day-, "Soup."

There was one on the sink, "Toothpaste."

There were three on the mirror, "Shampoo." "Razors." "Shaving crème."

There were four in the fridge, "Milk." "Cheese." "Bread." "Apples."

There was one on the couch, "Laundry detergent."

There was one on the current book Sherlock was reading, "Soap."

There was one on the window, "Window cleaner."

There was one on the television, "Dust cleaner."

There were a ton more.

And scattered anywhere in flat that they could possibly have sex -about twenty on the floor, at least ten plastered on the walls, three on the kitchen table, four in the bathtub, and around thirty in their bed - there were multi-colored notes that said, "Condoms."

Sherlock saw the game John was playing. He, too, could be as annoying as possible. He was going to go to the store, and somehow the only thing that he was going to remembered that was on John's twisted list was condoms.

So he bought sixteen boxes of condoms.

When John got home, Sherlock was very pleased with himself. He was sitting on the couch reading his book. The Post-It's were gone, so John knew he saw them.

"Did you go to the store, then?" was the first thing John said when he walked through the door.

"My afternoon was great, darling. How was yours?"

"Did you go to the store?"

"Fine, pay no attention to me."

"Did you go to the store?"

"Yes, John."

John stopped mid-jacket-taking-off. "What?"

"I did."

"Did you get everything on the list?"

"More or less."

"What does that mean?"

"I got more or less everything on the list."

Sherlock didn't end his game at getting just condoms at the store. He took it further by taping one condom to every surface he knew John would see when he got home. There was one on the coat rack. One on the bathroom mirror. One on the toilet. Three on the bed. One on John's closet. One on their bedroom door. One on the fridge. One _in _the fridge. There were condoms everywhere.

"Sherlock!" John called from the bedroom.

"Yes?"

"Did you get _just _condoms at the store?"

"I said more or less everything on the list."

"So, not anything on the list _except _condoms?"

Sherlock smiled. "Would you like to use one now?"

"No, I don't want to use one now! I want you to buy milk!"

"I went to the store-"

"Yes, the little spoiled baby went to the store and bought only condoms because you're a spoiled little baby that has to have me do everything, right? This is your little game that you think you've won because now I'm upset and NO, Sherlock, I do not want to have sex with you!"

"I was just-"

"I know you were _just, _Sherlock! Just trying to have a laugh and just trying to make light of every situation you're ever in. I'm not your mother, Sherlock!"

"All right, I'm sorry." Sherlock went to John and tried to wrap his arms around him.

"No, Sherlock. I don't want 'I'm sorry'. I want, 'Yes, John, my love, my life, I will buy you milk because you do everything to make me happy and just once I'd like to make you happy.'"

"John, calm down-"

"NO, Sherlock, I will not calm down! Don't you see? I do everything for you, and you can't even go down the street for milk!"

And like that Sherlock was out of the apartment. The door slammed behind him and John just stared at where Sherlock was once standing. John groaned and went to the door. He ran out and into the street, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

Sherlock was gone for almost two hours. He left without his phone, so John had no way of getting a hold of him. When he came back, John was in their bed on the computer.

"John?"

John sat up straight and closed his laptop.

Sherlock came to the doorway. "I'm sorry, John, I was just trying to-"

"No, Sherlock, I'm sorry. We were both trying to be funny and I got angry when I started it. I shouldn't have yelled. I love doing things for you, honest. I love taking care of you-"

"I brought you milk."

"What?"

"I brought you milk." Sherlock sort of smiled, just enough to melt John's heart.

"Come here."

Sherlock was on the bed and hooked to John in an instant. Their lips touched and parted, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled Sherlock on top of him.

"I couldn't remember anything else on the list, except milk. And, uh, condoms." Sherlock sort of smiled again.

"Well, it's a good thing we've got plenty of those." John pushed Sherlock onto the bed and got on top of him, then, while kissing Sherlock, he reached onto the headboard and pulled one of the condoms off the headboard.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock and John had very, very different childhoods. They grew up in different parts of England, with different surroundings and completely different upbringings. We'll start with John.

John grew up with his mother, father, and sister. He was older than Harry, his sister, and from the start they didn't get along. He had a fairly normal childhood, except the parts when his father was an alcoholic. John didn't know until he was about 13-years-old, and since then he hadn't really spoken to his father, but his father never made any particular effort to talk to him.

They were middle-class people. His father went from job to job trying to keep food on the table, and for the most part it worked. His mother worked two jobs, but she was still there.

He had a great relationship with his mother. She stood behind him in everything, she never loved him any less for anything he did or is. John always thought, and still thinks to this day, that his mother is perfect. John loves his mother more than he's ever loved anyone in his life.

Yes, John and the rest of the Watson family was fairly normal, every family has problems and their own secrets, right? That's what John always assumed.

Sherlock's upbringing was entirely different. He lived in the richer, more private parts outside of London, with his mother, father, and Mycroft. Mycroft was born six years before he was, and Mycroft was never particularly thrilled about having a baby brother.

Sherlock's mother loved him more than anything. Well, Mycroft, too. But Sherlock was her baby. Sherlock was the light of her life. Sherlock, with his little brown curls and bright blue eyes that would look at you and make your heart melt.

And Sherlock was brilliant from the start. He was so smart and learned so quickly. Sherlock's earliest memories are memories of sitting in his mother and father's gigantic bed while his mother read to him, and then it turned to him reading to his mother.

And she was always so proud of him. "My brilliant little Sherlock." or "My perfect little prince Sherlock." Sometimes, when Sherlock feels down about himself, his mother's voice rings out to him that he was perfect in every way.

Sherlock's father was away for business a lot. He would pat Sherlock's head and leave in his private car.

And Sherlock waited patiently for his father to come back. He would ask his mother what day it was, and when she'd say, "Tuesday." Sherlock knew it was time for Daddy to come home.

But one Tuesday he didn't.

"Mycroft," little four-year-old Sherlock asked, "Are you sure today is Tuesday?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It's Tuesday. Don't worry. He'll be back, and he'll probably bring us a new surprise. It's the second Tuesday of the month."

They always got presents on the second Tuesday of the month.

But he didn't come back. And Sherlock's mother cried a lot. And every night she'd pull baby Sherlock out of his bed to sleep with her. He'd cuddle up next to Mummy and she'd stroke his hair. When he was sick she'd rub his belly, when he was sad she'd wipe away his tears, when he was happy she'd bask in the sunlight coming from his eyes.

Sherlock, as a small child, never realized Mycroft was jealous. He didn't seem jealous, more just annoyed with his little brother, as older siblings can be. Sometimes Mycroft would sleep with Mummy and Sherlock, but sometimes Mycroft held himself away from them and did everything on his own. They'd all be out in the yard, and instead of picked flowers with Sherlock and Mummy, Mycroft would pick worms a distance away from them.

And then Sherlock turned five and got on Mycroft's nerves a little too much. Sherlock would ask Mycroft to do things for him, mundane things like tie his shoes or fetch him a glass of water. Usually Mycroft did, but on this day he was particularly irritated and wanted Sherlock out of his hair.

Mycroft didn't mean to say it. He wanted to keep the secret for his mother forever, but he couldn't help it any longer.

"You're adopted, Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted.

"What does that mean?"

"It means Mummy is not your real mum, and your real mum didn't love you enough to keep you."

Sherlock was confused, but he shook it off. "That's ok, I like the Mummy I have just fine."

"No, Sherlock. She's not your Mum. She's my mum! Just go back to where you came from! Probably Mars, no doubt!"

"Stop shouting. I'm going to tell Mummy."

"She's not your Mummy!"

Sherlock began to cry. He ran back to the house as quickly as he could, and Mycroft ran to hide. Sherlock found his mother in her room, where she usually was.

"Sherlock, darling, what's the matter?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock sniffled, "Told me you're not my real mummy!"

She scooped up baby Sherlock in her arms. She held him close enough for him to hear her heart beating quickly. "There, there." She soothed, but her heart was still racing and it made Sherlock uneasy.

"Is he right, Mummy? Are you not mine?"

She took a deep breath. "He is right, Sherlock. I'm not your biological Mummy. That means you didn't come out of me. But my darling," She took Sherlock's chin in her hand, "I love you no less. You are my baby, all mine. I've never loved anyone more than I love you and Mycroft. I am your Mummy, and I always will be." She hugged him tight.

Sherlock never, and has never, felt more loved or special.

Two hours after Mycroft told Sherlock the secret, he came back into the house. He went to their mother's bedroom, where her and Sherlock were painting on the bed.

"Mother," Mycroft said, scared, "I'm sorry for telling Sherlock the secret-"

"Come here, Mycroft."

Mycroft thought he was in trouble. He gulped and went to the bed. Their mother placed her arms around Mycroft's shoulders and hugged him tight. "It's all ok, Mycroft. We're still a family, just the three of us. And I love you both equally."

"I'm sorry, Mother. And Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"It's ok, Mycroft." Sherlock hugged his big brother as tight as his little arms would let him.

Since then, that moment, Mycroft made it his goal to, no matter what, protect Sherlock. He'd do anything for Sherlock that Sherlock asked. He'd be the man of the house.

The rivalry between the Holmes boys started when Sherlock was eight. They don't remember how, they just remember that Sherlock began to be smarter than he was the day before. And Mycroft felt threatened. Sure, Sherlock was their mother's baby, but Mycroft was their mother's 'smart-boy'. She'd say things like, "Mycroft, my genius son." or "Mycroft, my brain. Sherlock, my heart." That's how it was, until Sherlock also became the brain.

So the rivalry began. They tried to out smart one another, which only made them smarter and more eager to learn. But no matter how much Mycroft tried, Sherlock remains their mother's little baby.

So, yeah. Sherlock and John grew up on opposite parts of the track. They were different, yet similar. One evening, John decided to ask Sherlock about his father.

"What about him?" Sherlock asked, defensively.

"I…just…what happened to him?"

"He left us."

"Really? Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"Like, was he having an affair, was he…just selfish?"

"I don't know. I was four."

"You were four? Geez, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

"It's all right. I don't remember any of it, except my mother cried a lot and I slept with her until I was, like, thirteen."

John looked confused, "Really?"

"Yes. I'm not proud."

"No, no, I think it's-"

"Weird, I know."

"Sweet."

Sherlock half smiled. "When I got older, I figured out that he was probably, in a way, jealous of Mycroft and I."

"What do you mean?"

"My mother always showed more affection toward Mycroft and I. If my father had a rough weekend at the office, but Mycroft or I were upset, she'd go to us before my father. Or she'd let one of us sleep with her, and my father would leave the bed to sleep elsewhere. I never thought anything of it until I got older and realized that was probably why."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"It's all right. It wasn't my fault. I was just a child."

"You're absolutely right."

Sherlock sighed. "What about your father?"

"I don't know. I think he died while I was in Afghanistan."

"You _think_?"

"I hadn't talked to him since I was 13."

"Because he was an alcoholic?"

"Yeah, how did you-"

"Lucky guess."

"He was an awful man. But I didn't pick up any of his traits."

"I know, they all went to Harry."

"That's mean, Sherlock." John chuckled.

"But truthful. You know it." Sherlock laughed.

Sherlock and John knew neither of them were brought up in the most normal way, but now they had each other to be abnormal with.


	14. Chapter 14

John likes to ask Sherlock questions about his past, Sherlock likes to ask John any questions. Sherlock's mind often ran like a child's, that was no secret. He thought of anything to say, and most of the time he didn't think before he spoke.

John learned to accept that. He's learned to just answer Sherlock's questions without hesitation, as quickly as Sherlock asks.

Often times they were:

"What's your favorite color, John?"

"Blue."

"What's your favorite month?"

"July."

"When did you lose your virginity?"

"16."

"To a boy?"

"22."

"Why so late?"

"I don't know, I didn't want to have sex with a man until then, I guess."

"Have you ever eaten a fish?"

"How do you mean?"

"Like a live fish."

"Why would I eat a live fish?"

"It was just a question. If you're going to get defensive you don't have to answer."

"No, I've never eaten a live fish, you weirdo."

"John, what's your favorite part of sex?"

"That it's with you, and I love you."

"No. I mean, literally. Favorite feeling."

"I guess, uh, the end."

"Of course."

"Why? Is that a weird answer?"

"I guess not, if that's how you feel."

But John likes to know things about Sherlock from his past. He likes to ask questions to really get to know Sherlock.

"What did you study at Uni, Sherlock?"

"Everything I was interested in."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I just took classes I was interested in that I thought would actually help me in life."

"What do you have a degree in?"

"I don't."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't have a degree."

"So…"

"When I finished learning everything I wanted, I just, sort of, left."

"You just left Uni without a degree?"

"Yes."

"Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just interesting."

"How many ex's do you have, Sherlock?"

"Define ex."

"How many times have you been heartbroken?"

"I've never been heartbroken."

"What about Irene?"

Sherlock smiled, "Oh, that. I guess that was my only relationship, other than you."

"But she broke your heart."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, you…switched sides, if you know what I mean."

"I didn't."

"But you like men now."

"I don't like men, I like you."

"What am I?"

"John."

John smiled. "Really, though. You said women aren't your area."

"She dumped me thirty seconds after I proposed to her. I wouldn't say women are my area, would you?"

John chuckled, "I guess not. You proposed?"

"Yes."

"How old were you?"

"I think…32? Yeah, that sounds right."

"How old was she?"

"37, or so."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I asked her to marry me and she said no. Then she broke up with me."

"Why do you think she did that?"

"She didn't want to be married."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Now I have you."

John smiled. "How long were you with her?"

Sherlock chuckled, "Well. We were together, then we weren't, then we were, then we weren't, then we were, then we finally just stopped. We met when I was 21, in Uni. And we were together for two years. After I left Uni, she left England. I followed her. Wherever she'd go, I'd go. That went on for two years, then we settled down in America for a while, in New York, even though I hated it. We stayed there for around two years. Then, she left again. And I left her alone for about a year. Then, I found her again. Or, rather, she found me. And we were together for two years. Then, we were apart for a few months, then back together until I proposed."

"Why were you with her on and off for so long?"

"I loved her."

"Oh." John felt sad for some reason.

"I don't anymore, John. I got over it. Her."

"I know. I mean, I'd hope you didn't still love her."

"I don't. I love you, only you and only ever you again."

John kissed Sherlock.

He didn't like Irene for hurting Sherlock, but he appreciated her for saying no to his proposal.


	15. Chapter 15

Sometimes Sherlock sucked his thumb, and for the most part John thought it was weird. Sherlock didn't do it often, just when he was _really, really _tired. He'd sleep on his side and let his thumb slip into his mouth, his face resting on his palm. Sometimes it was kind of cute, John thought.

Sometimes John would think it was entirely weird. He knew it wasn't normal for a 35-year-old man to suck his thumb. But then he thought hardly anything about Sherlock was normal. Everything went back to something strange in Sherlock's childhood, even thought Sherlock would claim he had an entirely normal childhood.

Sometimes John would think it was…sexy. Is that the word he liked to use? He wasn't proud of it, he would never tell Sherlock. He would never tell Sherlock that when John couldn't sleep, he'd listen to Sherlock sucking away at his fingers and imagine Sherlock sucking away at something else. He would never tell Sherlock how tempted he was to give Sherlock something else to suck away at.

But he never did. He'd lay there and listen to Sherlock suck, imagining Sherlock sucking, and stroking at himself.

He didn't like it. He thought it was weird, this whole situation. Sometimes he'd think too much at what he was doing, so he'd stop. And Sherlock would stop sucking, and everything was normal. But then Sherlock would begin sucking again and he would start again, too.

In the morning, John would wake up sort of ashamed. He knew it was weird. He knew he should try to steer Sherlock away from every once in a while sucking his thumb. But he couldn't do it.

"How did you sleep?" John would ask.

"Perfect, I haven't slept that well in a while." Sherlock would yawn. "You couldn't sleep, then?"

"How did you know?" John would be sort of scared, as if Sherlock knew what he did and why he did it.

"You're barely waking up when I'm waking up. You should've been up hours ago."

"Oh, you're right."

"Is there something else? You're acting strange."

"Nothing else," John half smiled, "I assure you."

"You know I'll figure it out if there's something else, right?"

"I do know that, Sherlock."

Three weeks later, it happened again. The exact same thing. And again, John was not proud.

The same morning conversation happened, and again Sherlock was questioning if John was all right. John assured Sherlock he was.

The next day, Sherlock figured it out.

"John," Sherlock said at lunch, "Do you masturbate when I suck my thumb?"

John was completely caught off guard, "I-uh-what?"

"You heard me."

John cleared his throat, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I won't think it's weird, John. I suck my thumb, after all."

"I-uhm. No, Sherlock. I was asleep."

"No, you weren't. You woke up at the same time I did, you were awake."

"So?"

"And you touched yourself."

"Why do you think that?"

"You didn't try to have sex with me this morning."

"So?"

"You never do when you did the night before."

Silence.

A lot of silence.

Awkward silence.

John felt weird. Like it was wrong, like he shouldn't be turned on when Sherlock sucks his thumb -_which he shouldn't be_. And he felt weird now that Sherlock knew -_like it was a secret. _And he felt weird that he would masturbate with Sherlock right next to him -_it's not like Sherlock never does that to him. _

"You don't have to feel weird, John."

"Why?"

"It's natural."

"But-"

Sherlock began to laugh. John's cheeks went red because Sherlock was laughing at him. He began to feel angry. He got up from the kitchen table and stormed away.

"No, John, wait!" Sherlock went after John.

John slammed the door on Sherlock's face, but Sherlock opened it quickly. "Go away, Sherlock. You've embarrassed me."

"I, the grown man that sucks his thumb, has embarrassed you, the grown man that masturbates?"

"I…_do it_ to you sucking your thumb. That's weird, Sherlock."

"So?"

"So, it's weird and you've embarrassed me."

Sherlock put his arms around John. "It's all right, John. I give you permission."

"Permission? I don't need your permission."

"I know, you were doing just fine without it."

Sherlock began to laugh again. This time, John laughed too. They laughed together for a few minutes, then they stopped.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Don't be silly, John. You don't need to be sorry."

And they continued their every-once-in-while traditions of sucking and touching, but not each other.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock likes to drink alcohol, whereas John does not. No, no. Sherlock likes to drink alcohol after he's solved a great case, sort of celebratory. It wasn't like he did it all the time, John really had nothing to complain about. But sometimes he did.

It all started on a crime scene, when Sherlock was being Sherlock and for some reason, that day it just annoyed the shit out of John. When Sherlock finished his explanation and called everyone an idiot, John stood up and walked off the scene. Sherlock didn't go after him, not that John expected him to, so John went home. A few hours later, Sherlock came back and was completely drunk.

John doesn't like drunk Sherlock. He was stupid and childish and not in Sherlock's right mind. When he stumbled into the flat, John woke up and helped him up the stairs and to bed.

"Sherlock, how much did you have to drink?"

"A thou-thand drink-th."

"What kind?"

"A thou-thand kind-th."

"Who did you drink with?" John pushed Sherlock onto the bed and was taking his shoes off.

"Gabe."

"Who is Gabe?"

"The man at the bar."

John sighed, "Was Gabe nice?"

"Oooooooooooh, ye-th."

"What does that mean?"

"Gabe i-th ni-the. Very, very ni-the."

John chuckled at Sherlock's drunken lisp. "What did Gabe do that was so nice?"

"He gave me a ki-thhh."

"He what? He kissed you?"

"Ye-th."

"How?"

"He," Sherlock pointed at John, then pointed away from John at a space of the room that was to symbolize Gabe, "Pre-thhhed hi-th lip-th again-tht mine." He pressed his own finger against his lips. "And put hi-th tongue in my mouth." Sherlock stuck his tongue out, revealing it to be lime green. John's stomach turned in the thought that someone else's tongue was also bright green, then he realized that's not how it worked.

"How long did this kiss last?"

"I'll th-ow you." Sherlock pulled at John's head and stuck his tongue into John's mouth.

"No, no," John pulled away, "I don't want you to show me."

"You don't want to ki-th me?"

"No, I don't want to."

"I-th it becau-the Gabe ki-thed me?"

"No. N-yes, Sherlock, it is. Why did you let someone else kiss you?"

"Are you jealou-th?"

"No."

"Johnny'-th jealou-th."

"I am not, now lift your arms." John pulled a gray t-shirt over Sherlock's head.

"Johnny, don't be jealou-th. I am your'-th. Wait, am I Gabe'-th now?"

"No, Sherlock. You are mine. You shouldn't be kissing Gabes."

"Oop-th." Sherlock looked sad. "I need to call John."

"I'm right here, Sherlock."

"I need to call you."

"Why?"

"To tell you I love you."

"Just tell me right now. You don't need to call me."

"No. Phone."

"No, Sherlock. Bed." John pushed Sherlock onto the bed and pulled the blankets over him. "Goodnight."

"John?"

John was pulling his pants off to get into bed with Sherlock, even though he didn't really want to. He wasn't tired any more, nor did he want to be in bed with a drunk man. "What, Sherlock?" John asked, annoyed.

"I'm th-orry Gabe ki-thhhed me."

"Was it your fault, Sherlock? Did you kiss Gabe? Because usually you don't apologize unless it was your fault."

"Oh, I don't know, Johnny. All I know i-th I love you, and your tongue i-th making me hot."

"My tongue is making you hot? How?"

"I can th-ee it, and I want it to touch me."

"You want my tongue to touch you?"

"Ooooooooooooooooh, ye-thhhhhh." Sherlock's hips thrust upward at nothing.

"No, Sherlock. I'm not doing anything to you. You're drunk, it'd be just wrong."

"Not if I want it, Johnny. I want your tongue on my thhh-kin," he thrust his hips up again, then moaned. He pushed the blankets off of himself, revealing his massive erection.

John stared for a minute, then snapped out of his trance. "No, Sherlock. I'm not."

"You don't want me?" Sherlock sounded sad.

"Of course I do, baby, I just can't. Not when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk."

"You're very drunk."

"I'm hot, John. I have thi-thh burning in my th-omach. Make it go away."

"How? Do you need to throw up?"

"No, touch me." Sherlock's hips thrust again.

John went to Sherlock's bedside. He leaned over him and said, "No."

Sherlock was a lot quicker than John thought he'd be. Sherlock sat up almost instantly, pulling John tight between his legs. One of his hands went behind John's head, and pulled John towards his own face. As he kissed John, his other hand was trying to pull John's underwear down.

"No, no, Sherlock."

"You're ju-tht th-o th-ek-thi. I have to need you, now."

Something about Sherlock's lisp was sexy to John, even though he had no idea what it was. He was upset with Sherlock; upset about that afternoon, upset about him being drunk, upset about him kissing Gabe. But at the same time, Sherlock was hugely irresistible. He couldn't help it. He pushed Sherlock onto the bed and got on top of him, between his legs.

Sherlock kissed John for a few minutes, then he broke away to bite John's neck. "John, do you think Gabe wanted to do thi-th to me?"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Silent kissing.

"John, would you beat up Gabe if he did thi-th to me?"

"Stop talking, Sherlock."

More silent kissing.

"John, it hurt-th."

"What hurts, baby?"

Sherlock thrust his hips up, grinding himself against John. He let out a moan of relief, "That felt gooooood."

He did it again, and moaned again. Pretty soon he was doing nothing but moving his lower body against John's, making loud moaning and groaning sounds with each bit of contact.

"No, no, Sherlock. Stop moving, I'm going to do-"

"NO, Johnny. Let me, it hurt-th, I need to-"

"Stop, Sherlock, I'll do something else and we'll both-"

"No time, Johnny, it hurt-th, I have to cum or el-the it'-th going to fall off."

"It's not going to fall off, just slow down and let me-" John pulled Sherlock's underwear down enough to touch him, but Sherlock quickly flipped John over and was now on top.

He pulled his underwear down past his butt, and began thrusting against John again. John was begging him to stop, to let him do everything, but Sherlock ignored him. Sherlock wrapped his own hand around his erection and began thrusting into it, while still on top of John.

It didn't last long after that. Sherlock let go and came all over John's stomach, moaning John's name as loud as he could. John tried his best to touch himself while Sherlock was coming, but he wasn't quick enough. Sherlock rolled off of him and laid next to him while John was still touching himself.

"Sherlock, come on, help me."

"No, Johnny. I don't want to touch you."

"But you just-"

"No, I don't want to."

"Do something else then."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, just-" John was too busy now. He didn't care if Sherlock did anything. He hadn't had sex in almost three weeks. He was in no mood to wait around for Sherlock.

Sherlock watched silently for a minute or two, then a wide grin flashed across his face and he got as close to John as possible. His lips were right next to John's ear, and as John thought Sherlock was going to begin licking him, Sherlock moaned instead.

The sound of Sherlock moaning went straight between John's legs. Sometimes, nothing was sexier than Sherlock moaning. Sherlock could moan out of boredom and it'd make John perk up, just a little.

Sherlock continued to moan. He moaned John's name, he moaned at different speeds and pitches.

Then, he began to talk. "Come on, John. Cum all over your-thelf like I ju-tht did." He moaned. "John, you're th-o big, I bet you couldn't even fit in me right now." He moaned louder. "John…fuuuuuuuuuuck." He more or less whispered the last word, but it was sexy as hell to John.

John looked at Sherlock and stuck his tongue in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock pulled John's hand off himself and took hold of John, moving his arm at the same pace John was. In no time, literally seconds, John was coming all over his own stomach. He arched his back, moaned Sherlock's name, and fell back onto the bed.

"Oh, I love you, Sherlock. I love you."

"I love you, John."

"Do you feel better?"

"Ye-th. No more hot."

"Good."

They laid in bed, ready to go to sleep.

"Sherlock," John began, "Why did you kiss Gabe?"

"He bought me a drink."

"Is that the only reason?"

"Ye-th."

"Did you want to have sex with Gabe?"

"Nooooo, I want to have th-ekth with you."

"Are you sure? Just me?"

"Ju-tht you, forever."

"Even when you drunk kiss other men?"

"Even when I ki-thhh men other drunk."

John laughed. He didn't like when Sherlock drank alcohol, but next time he was sure to accompany Sherlock.


	17. Chapter 17

If you haven't noticed, Sherlock hates to wear clothes, and John certainly doesn't mind. It's not like he was _always _in want of Sherlock's body, or something. He could live without it, really. But he didn't mind being able to just stare every once in a while.

And Sherlock had a wide range of types of underwear. They were multi-colored, multi-style, but the same brand and softness. John's favorite were Sherlock's royal blue briefs. They made Sherlock's skin look more pale than usual, and for some reason John liked that.

John and Sherlock were in a weird sort of war with one another. It all started at a crime scene two days ago, and it was continuing here. Usually, Sherlock and John try not to take their work home, but Sherlock made John so angry that it had been two days of no talking.

"John," Sherlock said to John across the room, "You can't be angry with me forever."

_Yes I can, _John thought.

"You'll talk to me eventually."

_No, I won't._

"Stop talking to yourself in your head and talk to me."

_How could he possibly know…_

"I know everything, John."

"Stop it!" John shouted.

Sherlock got off the couch and went to their room. He was gone for a while, and when he came back he was wearing John's favorite underwear, and that's it.

"Do you like, John?"

_Yes._

"Do you want to touch, John?"

_Yes._

"Just say the word, John."

_No, I'm going to win this battle._

"You'll never win this battle."

_Watch me._

For three days, Sherlock waltzed around the apartment naked. No, not naked. With underwear on. The same underwear. John figured Sherlock must have either bought a dozen pairs of the same exact underwear, or Sherlock was actually doing laundry. Either way, it made John feel special because Sherlock was making a huge effort to make John talk to him again.

But John didn't. On the fourth morning, Sherlock tried a different approach. He woke up while John was in the shower and made him toast. Well, he was trying to make toast. When John walked in, Sherlock was sticking a fork into the toaster trying to make the toast, that was smoking, come out.

"No, Sherlock!"

Sherlock dropped the fork instantly. John unplugged the toaster and made the toast pop out of it. It was very, very black.

"What were you trying to do? Kill yourself?"

"I don't understand."

"You would've been electrocuted. What are you doing? Shouldn't you be in bed? It's 6 AM."

"I wanted to make you toast."

"Are you sick?" John pressed his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

"No, I'm not sick, you idiot. I wanted you to talk to me again. I've been trying and trying-"

John rubbed his eyes. "You could have just apologized."

Sherlock looked confused, "I did."

"No. 'John, I'm sorry you're not as smart as I am.' is not an apology."

"What is, then?"

"'I'm sorry, my lovely John, for upsetting you."

"But I don't get why you're upset."

"You are such an idiot sometimes."

"I thought being naked and making you toast would-"

"Not always, Sherlock. I am a human, I like apologies."

"All right." Sherlock nodded and left the room.

Sherlock wore clothes for the rest of the day, but the next day when John got home from work, Sherlock was back in his underwear for another try.

Sherlock met John at the door, and before John had his coat off, he was being pushed against the door and being kissed.

John pulled away, "No, Sherlock. I had a bad day, I'm not in the mood."

"Stop, John. I'm sorry for the other day, at the crime scene. I'm sorry for making you angry," Sherlock kissed John, "And I'm sorry for not understanding."

John hugged Sherlock. He took into account that Sherlock was trying very hard to understand, and that he was trying so hard to make it better.

They hugged against the door for a while, then John said they should go have dinner. Sherlock got dressed, but once they were back in the apartment he was undressed again, and was undressed for days after. He was still trying to make it up to John, and John was ok with that.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock couldn't grow facial hair, whereas John could fairly well. Actually, Sherlock hardly had any body hair, especially since he shaved everything to be able to put his iPod somewhere.

Sherlock would always laugh when John wouldn't shave for a few days and sandy blonde stubble would appear on his face. When that would happen, Sherlock would almost beg John to shave.

"Let's do this again." John closed his eyes and smiled, "Good morning, my love."

Sherlock sighed an annoyed sigh, "Good morning, John."

John coughed a coughed, like he was trying to get Sherlock's attention.

"No." Sherlock said.

"Come on, Sherlock. Kiss me."

"No."

"Why?"

"You need to shave."

"I need to shave?"

"Yes, your face has those annoying little prickly things and I don't like it."

"I always thought facial hair on a man was sexy. You can't grow facial hair-"

"Is that a flaw?"

"No, no. That's not what I meant."

"Well, I'm not kissing you until you shave."

"Suit yourself. I can wait."

John didn't shave for another week after that. Honestly, John was getting a little lazy. He had saved up all of his vacation days to use them for a big vacation, a two and a half week vacation to be exact. John wasn't going to shave, cut his hair, or leave the apartment at all.

And Sherlock thought he was getting to look ridiculous. His hair was long, his face was just hairy, and altogether Sherlock thought he looked like a bum.

"Please, John."

"Please what?"

Sherlock had began this at a really random time. They were on a scene, actually. John just said something wonderfully brilliant and Sherlock had the urge to kiss him right there in front of everybody. But he held back. He didn't like when his face itched because of John's annoying face stubbles.

"Please shave."

"Wh-" John looked around at Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, and the new guy Jeff looking at him. "Now? Really? This can wait."

"No, no! How else am I supposed to reward you for being brilliant!"

John rubbed his eyes and mumbled into his palm, "You could wait until we get home."

"John, I have to agree. As someone that looks at you fairly often, it's time to take a razor to your face." Sally said.

"What's my face to you?"

"As a woman-"

"I'm not interested in pleasing women!"

"Obviously." Lestrade whispered.

"So, wait, they're-" Jeff began to ask about the relationship status between John and Sherlock, but was so rudely cut off.

"I am not shaving my face!"

"You look ridiculous, John! You look like a little hobbit man!" Sherlock said. Lestrade and Anderson chuckled.

"No, no. I am not-"

Nobody heard, but Jeff whispered to himself that facial hair is sexy.

"For me, John?"

"I do everything else to please you, this is _my _face, _my _facial hair."

"Yes, but we have to look at it." Sally said.

"If I was going to take anyone's opinion, it'd be _his,_" John pointed at Sherlock, kind of disgustedly.

"Why won't you just shave it?" Lestrade asked.

"Because for the past two weeks, we have had almost zero contact," John spoke, Jeff stared, "We haven't kissed. We haven't…well, that's none of your business. I'm not shaving because I want to win, just once. I am not shaving until I get kissed."

That was actually Jeff's cue. Jeff didn't really know what was happening, himself. All he knew was the silence between the members of the small group had gone on too long. Jeff took a step at John, took his prickly little hobbit face in his hands, and pressed his too chapped lips to John's.

The kiss went on as long as it took Sherlock to uncomfortably cough and regain John's attention. John stumbled backward, looking Jeff in the face. Jeff looked scared. They both looked at Sherlock quickly, who looked shocked and sort of angry.

Sherlock turned around and walked away.

"Sherlock, the case?"

"Check under each tire of the car. You'll figure it out. John, let's go."

John stood still and looked at Jeff. "Well, I-"

"John!"

"Right. Goodbye."

When they got home, John went straight to the bathroom to shave. By the time he finished, Sherlock was standing in the doorway wearing his special blue underwear and nothing else.

"Was it good?"

"What?"

"Jeff's kiss."

"Of course not."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like being kissed by anyone else. Just you."

"Then why are you shaving?"

John turned around to look at Sherlock and leaned back against the sink, "I don't like when it's not you."

Sherlock darted at John. He took John's smooth face in his hands and stroked as he kissed.


	19. Chapter 19

John used to smoke, whereas Sherlock never actually has. He used the nicotine patches, sure. But only once has a cigarette touched his lips. He was sixteen, curious, and bored. And he'd never choked so much in his life.

John started smoking when he was twenty-two. He was in the service, under stress, of course, and needed something to do. It just sort of happened. He quit shortly after his mother passed away. He wasn't sure why he had the urge to quit, probably something cliché like life being too short, or something. He replaced smoking with other things, one being his bunkmate.

Sherlock always noticed the random moments John would pucker his lips and suck in. Of course he noticed. He was observant and spent 75% of his down time looking at John. It didn't take him long to notice.

"Do you do that because you used to smoke?" Sherlock thought it best to ask randomly than weave it in to normal conversation.

"Do what?"

"Pucker your lips like that."

"Like what?"

Sherlock demonstrated.

"Oh, that. Uhm, yeah. I did. When I was younger."

"How young?"

"I started when I was twenty-two."

"That's not that young."

"Does it matter?" John was snippy today. He did the lip thing.

"You do it when you're annoyed or trying to think."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Which means you do it a lot with me. Do I make you want to smoke again?"

"Sometimes, yeah."

Sherlock left it alone. He didn't want John to feel stressed near him.

Two weeks later, Sherlock began his new form of conditioning. Each time John sucked in, Sherlock would kiss him.

For two months this went on, this little pattern that John didn't know about. He'd suck in and Sherlock would kiss.

Then, they were on a scene and the conditioning more or less paid off.

Sherlock was yelling, "Think, John! Think very, very hard!"

John couldn't think. John's mind was crowded with too many thoughts and trails and dead ends. John was too stressed to think of anything else.

Then, John stood and quickly grabbed Sherlock. He forced his tongue into Sherlock's mouth as quickly and forcefully as he could. They stood tongue battling for a few minutes, everyone watching and quite uncomfortable.

Then, their kissing slowed and was beginning to be slow and passionate.

Which was even more uncomfortable.

Finally, John broke away and began shouting about some rubbish.

"Her skin, right there, it shouldn't be that shade of green. If she was decomposed, yes, but she's only been here six hours it wouldn't be that color. It had to have been something in the water where she began. Upstream, obviously, because her body flowed downstream. Additionally, I think the cut was made after she was already dead. Hardly any blood flow, plus the cut was probably made with something equally as unsanitary as the river. All of the other bodies have the same thing? Well, you're looking for the murderer near that rubbish plant up the river, he's got to be there. Were you trying to condition me?"

"Well done, John! And yes, I was."

"I told you to stop doing that!"

"Wait, he does it often?" Sally began to laugh.

"Shouldn't you all be off finding a murderer somewhere?" John yelled.

"Why are you upset?"

"Because now when I get worked up I'm going to have the urge to kiss you!"

"I don't mind."

"It's embarrassing!"

"To you."

"Yes, well. Uncondition me."

"Uh, I can't, John. That's the point."

"Dammit, Sherlock! I am not part of your experiments!" Then, John attacked Sherlock with his lips again.

This time everyone began to disperse, and John and Sherlock got a cab and kissed the entire way home, where they definitely kissed some more.


	20. Chapter 20

John really did want to have children one day, but Sherlock really, really did not. Sherlock was definitely not a father figure. An uncle, yes. A babysitter, if he had to be. But a full-time caretaker?

Let's put it this way. When Sherlock was eight, he wanted a fish more than anything in the world. There was one in particular that he wanted. He begged his mother for months and months, and finally she got him one.

He called it Jekyll, after the stories, and he was terribly pleased. Jekyll was his new best friend. He took the fish into his room every night, and every morning he ate breakfast with it in the dining room.

For a while, his mother would feed it. She, honestly, didn't trust Sherlock. Rightfully so, too, because a week after she finally let him feed Jekyll, Jekyll was dead.

Now, Sherlock was, after all, only eight-years-old. Not much more responsibility could be expected from an eight-year-old. Sherlock sulked for a while until he accepted that it was his fault and he moved on.

Then, for his twelfth birthday, Sherlock asked for a turtle. Why, his mother asked, he didn't know. He just could not live without a turtle. So, his greatest-mother-in-the-universe bought him a turtle. He called it Hatter.

"Hatter, darling?" his mother had asked.

"Yes, mother, you know, like the Mad Hatter?"

"That seems a bit arbitrary, sweetie."

"It's really not, Mummy. You know in the children's film, how the Hatter is a rabbit? Oh, Mother, it's not going to be funny if I have to explain it."

Marie silently walked away from her odd child.

He was extremely happy with Hatter.

Until he lost said turtle.

The housekeeper found him four days later.

"Ma'am, I found Sherlock's turtle."

"Oh dear, is it dead?"

"Well, no, ma'am, but I really don't think he's suitable to-"

"No, you're absolutely right. Take it away."

"What shall I do with him, ma'am?"

"I don't care. You've got a son, right? Re-gift the damn thing."

The housekeeper smiled, "Oh, he'll love it."

"Yes, hopefully he'll be more responsible."

Marie claimed that that was going to be the last time she got him a pet, but it wasn't.

When Sherlock was fifteen, she got him a snake.

"What are you naming this one, darling?"

"Basil Hallward."

"Really, sweetie? You're naming your snake Basil Hallward?"

"Fine, fine. I'll call it Ichabod."

She stared blankly at him.

"Ichabod! Ichabod Crane! Honestly, how are you my mother?"

As Marie was exiting the room, she said, mostly to herself, "You're adopted."

"I heard that!"

Well, you can imagine how Sherlock's time with the snake went. Basically, he was waiting for it to die so he could experiment on it. It was mean, it was cruel, but _really _this is Sherlock.

So, now that he's an adult and at an appropriate fathering age, thirty-seven, John wanted to ask about it.

"So, that's a no on children, then?"

"Of course that's a no. You cannot possibly think-" John looked sad. "Oh, god, you did possibly think."

"It's just that I've always wanted to be that caretaker, you know? I've always wanted to hold my own child in my arms and feel like a father."

"Well, I'm sorry, John. That's something I can neither physically or emotionally or mentally or whatever give you. I'm not meant to be a father, I'm sorry." John still looked sad, "Look, John, I truly am sorry. I guess we should have had this conversation a really long time ago. Or, I thought you'd have assumed by now. If," Sherlock gulped, "If you want to leave, I understand."

"What? Just like that? After this tiny conversation?"

"This wasn't really a tiny conversation, John. Not to others. I'd say this is something quite big for others, actually."

"No, no. You're not getting rid of me that easily. We've been together for two years. And I love you. I guess I'll just have to-"

"I'm not giving you children, John. I'm not going to be a father."

"I know, Sherlock. And I can be ok with that. Because I'm selfish and I have you. And you're all I need."

"Are you…positive?"

"Of course. I love you more than anything in this world, you know that."

"I do. And I love you, too."

"I'll just," John stood from his chair, "I'll be fine." He went to their room.

Yes, John's always been a caretaker. He is a doctor, after all. A damn good one. It was just natural for him. He was the man of the house, even when he wasn't, and he took care of his sister, even though he is younger.

John had many pets when he was younger. For a while, he had a bird. Her name was Tulip. He had to give Tulip away once when his father was on a particularly mean streak.

Then, he had Carl, the cat. It was a really mean cat, though, so he himself opted to give it away.

Then, he had a set of gerbils, Harry and Mint. Yes, he named one after his sister. When asked why, he'd say she had a particular mood and was, really, a bitch. His sister didn't like that. One night, while John was sleeping, Harry let Harry and Mint loose in the house. When their father found them, he made John take those ones away, too.

Then, he had a frog. He named it Frank, and he actually had Frank for quite a long time. Frank eventually died, and John buried him in the front yard.

Then, when John was sixteen and about to be kicked out of his house, he _found _a dog. The dog was skinny and dirty and sad, just like John, so John bonded with the animal quickly and took it home. He named him Amigo, which John thought was clever and cute. Amigo grew healthy and strong, like he should have been, and by the time John got kicked out, the dog was healthy enough to be on its own for a while, because the friend that took John in wasn't really up for taking care of Amigo.

Well, John always had it in him to take care of something, even if it was always ruined or shot down by someone. He didn't mind, really. It was all ok for him, even when Sherlock said he couldn't have children. John, after all, did have his new niece, Jessica, that Harry just gave birth to. Plus, he had Sherlock's two nephews to share, which he loved. But still, he wanted something that was just his that nobody could take away.

Sherlock knew how passionate John was about taking care of things, and how badly he wanted children. Sherlock couldn't just simply change his mind, though. He'd been set since he was young to never have kids. But he loved John. He loved John more than anything, more than himself. Was he being selfish? Maybe. Was John being selfish? Of course not. A part of taking care of Sherlock was accepting this.

But Sherlock still felt awful. He really did want to make John happy. He didn't know how, on this topic, but he did his best.

For John's birthday, which was two months after this conversation, Sherlock got John a dog.

This wasn't just any dog. This was the dog he saw and immediately thought of John. It was quiet, thoughtful of all the other dog's in the pack, he seemed to be the leader, and he was small. Not too small, though. He was just right.

To be honest, Sherlock may have fallen in love with the dog the moment he saw him.

So he tried his best to wrap him up -a red ribbon bow on top of the dog's head- and placed him in the living room for John to find.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmmm?"

"You know we have a dog in here?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"Read his collar."

The tag on his collar said, "Your baby." It was kind of weird, but it warmed John's heart in just the right places. He smiled and hugged the dog, then got up and hugged Sherlock.

"You shouldn't have."

"I wanted to."

"Are you going to be ok with this?"

"Ok with what?"

"My attention is going to be divided now, you know that? Some to you, some to him."

Sherlock groaned. He did not realize that. "But you like him, right?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you so much. I love you."

"I love you too, John. Happy birthday."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"What are you going to name him?"

"Does he have one already? Sometimes they do."

"No, not that I know of. I don't speak dog."

"All right. How about…" John thought long and hard. For minutes. For forty-eight minutes. "Gladstone."

"_Gladstone? _What the hell kind of name is that?"

"The one I want for our dog."

"Your dog."

"He lives under _our _roof."

"You know you can't trust me to feed him and stuff, right?"

"I never thought I could."

"All right. Just so we're clear."

"You're very amazing, Sherlock."

"You are, John."

And Sherlock didn't feed or walk the dog. He did walk him if John wanted Sherlock to keep them company, but other than that John had no such luck with getting Sherlock to do anything to take care of their baby.

And Sherlock didn't really like to share John.

"I'll be right back, sweetie. I've got to walk Gladstone." John got out of bed and slipped his jeans on.

"We just woke up! Can't we just lay here?"

"No, you can go back to sleep. I've got to walk Gladstone."

"Jooooooooohn…" Sherlock whined as John pulled a shirt on.

"Ten minutes."

"Baaaaaaaaaabe…"

"Five minutes."

"If you stay here, I'll let you do whatever you want to me. Or I can do whatever you want me to do to you."

John almost stopped. "Oh, no. You're not using sex to keep me from walking our dog."

"Your dog."

"Stop calling him that!"

"Fine. I don't like this, John. I don't."

"You bought him for us."

"For you."

"Stop it!"

"All right, all right."

John went to the bed to hover over Sherlock. "I'll be right back. I love you." John kissed Sherlock quickly.

John took twenty minutes. He walked the dog, walked him some more, then played around the living room with him for ten minutes. Finally, the dog's energy died down and John went back to bed.

"I'm back."

"Yes, I could hear."

John slipped under the covers. "Did you miss me?"

"No."

"Liar."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Liar."

So, it took a while for Sherlock to get used to John having Gladstone, but once in a while John would catch Sherlock loving Gladstone. He'd pat the dog's head, or he'd throw the dog's toy, or he'd actually fill the dog's water bowl.

Once John actually, honestly, walked in to see the two of them asleep on the couch, the dog slightly drooling on Sherlock's chest.

And really, the dog's goal was to please Sherlock. Of course he pleased John, but if Sherlock paid him any attention, the dog's whole life would be complete. He'd be the most obedient dog ever if Sherlock so much as said his name without snarling.

John thought it was quite adorable. To John, his whole little family was complete. Just him, his one true love, and their baby.


	21. Chapter 21

John absolutely loves when Sherlock wears jeans. Like, a lot. Like, when Sherlock wears jeans he wants to bend him over the kitchen table or any table, really, even the desk in Lestrade's office.

Sherlock thought he looked like a bum when he wore jeans. He didn't like to _dress up _but he thought jeans was a bit too dressed down. Especially to go on a case.

Sherlock had a particular pair of jeans that John loved. They were dark blue, faded, stretched to perfection, and never, ever, ever washed. If Sherlock could help it he never washed any of his jeans, he hated when they were stiff from laundry detergent and heat. These jeans fit his slight curves perfectly, were just the right length, and they were just extremely tight and hot.

John stared. The entire time Sherlock paced the crime scene, he stared. Then, Sherlock would squat next to the body, and he'd pull his jeans up as high as they'd go and inch them up his thigh so they didn't fall when he squatted. Plus, Sherlock always rolled the edge of his jeans up once. The texture on that part of the fabric annoyed him. So, John could see his ankles.

And his ankles that were connected to his worn, black Converse All-Stars that John bought him and he claimed he'd never wear -but he did, once they were perfectly worn out, which means he had Lestrade run them over a few times.

And under those worn, black Converse All-Stars, there were no socks. Sherlock didn't wear socks with his Converse, and maybe that's what made his feet smell so funky all the time, but right now John liked it. He really had no idea why.

And above the hips that were holding up those perfectly snug jeans was a t-shirt. And Sherlock never wore t-shirts, if he could help it. He liked buttons, and to this day John didn't know why. But this was the softest t-shirt he owned. He would wear it and John would rub him all over -in a nonsexual way, of course. And the shirt made John laugh. It was Tardis blue, and had a picture of a Dalek printed on it.

Watching Sherlock and seeing how he was dressed, picking out every piece of boyish charm that was on him right now, John realized he was sexually attracted to a 35-year-old man dressed as a 15-year-old boy. And part of him really didn't think that was normal, so he looked away. But then, Sherlock stood and adjusted his jeans, adjusted everything inside those jeans, and John couldn't help but stare. They were just _so tight. _

John could swear he could see everything. But maybe he was imagining everything, because he hoped nobody else could see everything. John looked around the group, one of the new intern girls was staring. Oh, John could have punched her, then he remembered that she was probably 22-years-old, female, a lot smaller than John, and really no threat. Not only was she too young for Sherlock, but she was also _female._

They got a cab home, and once in the door John wasted zero time. He bent those pretty little jeans over the kitchen table and just touched. He touched every inch of Sherlock's jeans, soft shirt, curly mop of dirty hair, and what little skin was showing. With Sherlock's shirt still on, John inched it up his back and traced his finger trails with his tongue. He just wanted all of Sherlock's un-bathed skin.

"John." Sherlock's voice was soft and very sexy.

"Don't talk, baby, oh don't talk."

"I just thought I'd tell you before you claw away at my skin that I'm not wearing any underwear."

And those pretty little jeans were on the floor in seconds.


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock hates movies. They're predictable. Dull.

He liked TV, though.

No, no.

He liked Doctor Who.

He liked Doctor Who a lot.

He had every episode of Doctor Who on DVD.

_Every episode._

John didn't mind. John liked Doctor Who just fine.

But sometimes John didn't like Doctor Who.

These were times when Sherlock would get in one of his bored, depressed moods and he'd pop in his DVD's and watch as many episodes as it took for something entertaining to come along. And that meant they'd watch Doctor Who for weeks at a time.

"Sherlock, honey, can we turn off Doctor Who for a minute?"

"Why?"

"We just haven't talked in a few days, and I miss you." John's face was now next to his, which was pressed against the Union Jack pillow on the couch.

"We'll talk later. I like this episode."

"You like every episode."

"You're right."

"So, can we pause it for a little while? I want to talk to you."

Sherlock's stomach automatically turned when somebody said that to him, "About what?"

"Just about your day."

"I did nothing, John."

"I know, but I still want to talk to you."

There goes his stomach again, "Stop, John. Your making my stomach ache."

"I'm sorry. Can we turn off Doctor-"

"NO, John! No, leave me alone!"

John sighed and kissed Sherlock's cheek, "Ok, I'm sorry. I love you."

For three more days Sherlock did nothing but watch Doctor Who. John eventually got him in the bath and washed everything, and at the end he tried to rub a couple of things, but Sherlock resisted.

"No, John. Please I'm in no mood."

John left him alone. Sherlock came out of the bath only to watch Doctor Who, then Sherlock would go to bed with John and wake up before John, and when John found him he'd be watching Doctor Who.

John tried everything. He tried to cook Sherlock all of his favorite meals, he tried to find a nice mystery for Sherlock to solve, he tried to be naked as much as he possibly could in the hopes that Sherlock would like what he saw. But he didn't like any of it. He just laid there and watched Doctor Who.

"Sherlock, you're choosing Doctor Who over me."

"Do you want me to continue to live, John?" John nodded. "Then leave me alone and let me watch Doctor Who."

John was at his ends with having no attention from his love. Finally, he came home from work one afternoon and decided he was going to do just what he'd want Sherlock to do: try to be sexy in front of him.

John wasn't very good at it. He didn't have that obvious sex appeal that Sherlock had. Sure, Sherlock was sexually attracted to him, but to actually be sexy for Sherlock was going to be difficult.

John was embarrassed when he came out of the bathroom to reveal himself, hard as rock, to Sherlock. He didn't expect much, but it was worth a shot, and his shot was making him almost too bashful to produce any good results. But he got there, oh did he get there.

John came out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of the sofa that Sherlock's feet were on.

"Sherlock, I just want your attention for a few minutes."

No reply.

"Just for a few minutes, please, baby."

No reply.

So, John did what he wanted to do best at that moment: he began to touch himself. Sherlock caught on in no time.

"John? What are you doing?" He looked over at John and watched. At first, he watched only half interested, then John gained his full attention and he turned over onto his back, revealing the growing bulge in his sleep pants.

"You like this, then?" John asked, not breaking his pace for a second.

"I…I think so." Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably.

"Do it."

"Do…_it?"_

"Or I will."

Sherlock didn't move. He watched and let his bulge grow.

John grew impatient. "Take your pants off. Now."

Sherlock took his pants off, but still didn't touch anything. John moaned and moved his arm faster.

"Touch, Sherlock. Now."

Sherlock's long, soft fingers ran their way up himself, then down again, about five times as John watched and was practically drooling. He wanted to watch Sherlock come undone so badly.

"Harder, Sherlock. Do it."

Sherlock wrapped his long, soft fingers around himself.

"Stroke, Sherlock."

And boy did he stroke. John couldn't remember a time Sherlock stroked himself that hard, ever. In less than five minutes, Sherlock was coming undone all over his stomach, and John trailed directly after.

John collapsed on Sherlock's chest and his hands went to Sherlock's hair.

"Are you ok, babe? Are you all right?" John asked Sherlock over and over.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm fine."

John covered Sherlock's neck and face in kisses. "I just miss you, Sherlock. I hate when you're like this. I want you to be ok all the time."

"I know, I see you try and I'm sorry I can't be normal like you."

"Me? Normal?" John honestly began to laugh, "We're abnormal. Together."

Somewhere in the television, a Dalek blew up in another galaxy. Sherlock reached for the remote and shut it off without taking his eyes off John.


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock _hates _John's ex's.

"Sherlock, you realize you've never met him, right? As a matter of fact, you've never met any of my ex's."

"I've met Sarah."

"Yeah, but-"

"And, quite frankly, I don't like the relationship you have with her."

"What relationship? She's my boss!"

"Why are you shouting?"

"Because you're ridiculous."

"I just don't like him, John."

"You don't even know him! I dated him seventeen years ago!"

"He was your first boyfriend, wasn't he?"

"Sort of."

"Wh-what does sort of mean?"

"It means…yes, yeah. He was my first boyfriend."

"I don't even want to know what you're hiding."

"Sherlock, you realize that I have had sex with other people besides you? And I've had other relationships besides you? And that, even though all of that is true, I've only ever loved you?"

"So?"

"So you shouldn't be worried."

"I'm still worried."

Well, John's 'First-Boyfriend' came a week later for a visit. John hadn't seen him since before the war, well, since before John went into combat.

His name is Kent Smith. He was really pretty, if Sherlock was going to be honest with himself. He was just _pretty. _He was handsome, yes, but he was far too well groomed to be 'hot' and far too feminine to not be pretty.

Sherlock wondered if John liked pretty boys, and if he was a pretty boy. He was rather feminine, after all.

Kent was really nice, too, which just punched Sherlock in the throat even more. He was nice to John and he thanks John for every little _fucking _thing, and he complimented John, and he asked John questions about the war and his current life.

John was straight with Kent when he told him Sherlock is his boyfriend. Kent asked them questions about their relationship.

About marriage.

Maybe one day.

About children.

Definitely not.

About pets.

Just Gladstone.

About how it happened.

By accident.

About Sherlock past.

Adopted. Killed animals. Massive intellect. Almost engaged. Found John. Life in bliss.

Those were his words.

Later, they sent Kent on his way to his hotel, the nice one John picked out.

And Sherlock attacked John and dragged him to bed.

"She-Sher-Sherlock! What are you doing?"

Sherlock pulled John's pants off and was in the process of pulling his own off, "Claiming what's mine."

"You're insane." John's breath was shortening and getting heavier, and that was possible.

"Do you want me to stop, then?"

"No, no, no, no. Yours, yours, yours." John was nearly panting already.

Kent returned to the Holmes-Watson residence the next day. Sherlock was more unhappy today than the day before, and Kent was trying harder. And John was giving in.

The same thing happened that night than the night before.

The next day, Kent returned for his last visit. To cut the story short, Sherlock left the room and Kent made his move.

"No, Kent, I have Sherlock, I don't-"

"That's ok, he doesn't have to find out."

"No, but he will, and I don't want to. I'm-"

"Come on, John."

"No, no-"

Sherlock, as quiet as he can be, came into the kitchen. "He said no, Kent."

"Oh, Sherlock, I-"

"No, I know what you were doing. And I don't blame you, John is brilliant. He's smart, he's funny, he's caring, and he's really, really sexy. But he's not yours, anymore. So, if you'd please leave-"

"Look, John, I-"

"No, Kent. Leave." Sherlock sounded scary.

Kent went to the door. "John if you-"

Sherlock grabbed his coat collar and pushed him out the door, "Yes, thank you, Kent."

"Sherlock, I'm so sor-"

Sherlock kissed John. He kissed John and reminded John that John is his. _His. _

"I love you, John. No more ex's. Please."

"Deal."


	24. Chapter 24

John really, really likes sports. Sherlock hates sports. Absolutely despises them. It's not that he just hates them to hate them; he hates them because he doesn't get them and he's no good. He'd never admit to that, but that's the real reason.

John likes sports, as previously stated. There's not a limit to his sports interest. He liked European football and cricket and golf and tennis. But all of those things were seldom on television. And it was the summer.

He'd known a long time ago what baseball was, but he thought it was complex and boring and wasn't interested. Until he was stationed in America. While John was in America, stationed there for a year about ten years ago, John became brutally obsessed with baseball. He'd gone to a game with his friend, James, and fell in love.

His favorite team was the San Diego Padres, mainly because he was stationed in San Diego when he discovered his love for baseball.

John was in love with baseball and actually missed it a lot while he was at war, then back to England. Everyone he knew thought he was weird, so he couldn't talk about it or anything. Luckily, he had internet, though.

And then the MLB made baseball games available to watch online, for a price. And that price was nothing compared to what John would pay to watch his new passion.

"John? John, pay attention to me."

"Hang on. Two outs."

"I don't know what that means."

"One more and I'll pay attention to you."

Six minutes later.

"Ok, what, Sherlock?"

"I need your help."

John glanced at his computer screen, "How long will it take?"

"I don't know, anything from a minute to an hour."

John groaned, "All right, make it quick, then."

John assisted Sherlock in the experiment he was doing. John worked as quickly as he could, while Sherlock took his dear sweet time, which was an hour.

"All right, done."

"Thank you!" John put down everything he was holding and went back to his computer. "Oh, geez, the Dodgers scored."

"What's a Dodger?"

"A team."

"No, I mean what is a Dodger?"

"I don't know, Sherlock." John was distracted now.

"This has to stop, John. You're obsessed with a sport."

"Sshh."

"Oh my god."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and left the room. He disappeared, as far as John was concerned. Only could Sherlock be dead before John needed to be concerned.

The same thing kept happening every day all summer. John would turn on a game, any game, all day sometimes, and Sherlock would whine for his attention. Sherlock whined a lot, yes, but he really, _really _didn't like coming second to a sport.

But then Sherlock would try to understand. He'd sit next to John and watch the games being shipped from America on this tiny screen. Sherlock even went as far to buy John one of those cables that he could hook up his laptop to the television, so he wouldn't need such a tiny screen. Yes, Sherlock tried.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked the first time he sat next to John and actually wanted to know what that was, because he wanted John's attention and John to have someone to talk to about his strange addiction.

"A bat."

"What does it do?"

"You, uhm, you hit the ball with it."

"Like cricket?"

"Yeah, sort of. Except this bat is round, like a stick. And cricket bats are like a paddle."

"Oh, yeah," Sherlock was silent for approximately twenty-six and a half seconds and asked, "What's that?"

"That's a glove."

"What's it do?"

"You catch the ball with it."

"Why?"

"To protect your hands."

"Logical." Sherlock was silent for even less time than before, "What's that?"

"That's the ball, Sherlock." John took his eyes of the television for a second to give Sherlock a 'oh-my-god-you've-got-to-be-fucking-with-me' look.

But Sherlock was definitely not fucking with him. "Why do they wear shoes like that?"

"They're called cleats. They have spikes on the bottom so they can dig into the ground and run faster. Like in football." Sherlock gave John a blank look. "You don't know football then, either?" Sherlock gave him another blank look. John looked away to hold back asking, 'oh-my-god-you've-got-to-be-fucking-with-me'.

"Why do they wear uniforms?"

"Just to know what team they're on."

"Seems a bit dense, wouldn't they know that?"

"Yeah, but it's like a police uniform. In battle, or game, you _know _what side you're on."

Sherlock nodded. Something he understood, finally. "Why do they play outside?"

"Some teams don't. Some teams play indoors."

"What's an out?"

"It's like, uhm, a strike. You know, three strikes you're out?"

"But there are also strikes, right?"

"Yes."

"How do you know the difference?"

"Well, a strike is something only a batter can get. That's the batter, there." He pointed to the batter.

"Holding the bat?"

John held back his 'oh-my-god-you've-got-to-be-fucking-with-me'. "Yes. And the pitcher, that's him there," He pointed to the pitcher, "He throws the ball as hard as he can and at different pitches to try to get the batter to either swing and miss, and that would equal a strike, or hit the ball so the players in the field can get him out. Also, if the batter doesn't swing but it's still in the strike zone, that box there," He pointed out the strike zone, "Then it's a strike. The strikes equals an out. Three outs equals side change." John took a breath, "But if the pitcher throws the ball and it's outside the strike zone, and the batter doesn't swing, of course, then it's a ball. Four balls equals a walk, that means they go to first, there," He pointed to first base, "And once a runner makes it all the way around the bases and touches home, that's there," He pointed out home plate, "That counts as a run, or a point. Whoever has the most runs, or points, at the end of the game wins. The game lasts nine innings, eight and a half if the home team is winning. The home team is, well, the _home team."_

John stopped talking. Sherlock was genuinely trying to retain the information, but he couldn't understand. It must have been something he was destined to delete, so his hard drive wasn't even picking it up, it didn't recognize. He just stared at John and blinked.

"You didn't get any of that, did you?" John asked, half annoyed.

Sherlock shook his head, no.

John sighed, "Do you want me to go over it again?"

Sherlock nodded, yes.

John sighed even louder and went over it all again, this time slower, and he added hits and errors. Sherlock nodded the whole time, trying so hard to understand. He knew he wouldn't, and John knew he wouldn't, but this is how they started a fall of John teaching Sherlock the game of baseball, and even though they didn't bond over the game, they bonded over the explanations and words.


	25. Chapter 25

They're both far too competitive. John's competitiveness was often playful, little things like, "I bet I can throw this rock farther than you can," or "I bet the body was shot instead of stabbed." But Sherlock was more to set out that he is better at everything, with things like, "I bet I can orgasm later than you," or "I bet I can get that woman's phone number."

Yes, that is the competition we are pinpointing at this moment. It was right after the case, they'd just been dropped off by Mycroft and Anthea to 221B. As usual, John tried to jolt Anthea's memory to get her to remember John, but she was vacant and concerned with her phone. And Sherlock was only talking to Mycroft.

Instead of going home, they decided to go to the bar down the street. They took a table and ordered a drink, Sherlock ordered the exact same as John.

"Why do you always order the same as me?"

"I never know what to get, and you do. If you like it, I'll like it."

"You've never been much of a drinker?"

"Not really my area, no."

"Oh, druggies only like drugs. Right." John sort of chuckled. Sherlock gave him a death look. "Ok, sorry."

They drank their drinks and ate the nuts that were on each table. They talked but it wasn't anything important. And then, John got curious. "Why don't you ever talk to Anthea? In the car, after cases, you don't even look at her. Why?"

"I'm not allowed to talk to Anthea."

John was silent for a really long time. Far too long, and when he realized this he asked why.

Sherlock sighed, as if he's told the story a million times. He actually hasn't. This is only the second time it's ever been talked about. "I slept with her."

"What? When?"

"When she started working for Mycroft. About five years ago."

"And you just…slept with her."

"Yeah. It was pretty basic. Easy. Kind of sad how easy it was."

"What happened?"

"Mycroft found out. And he banned us from seeing each other."

"Just like that? Banned you?"

"Yeah. He said she'd lose her job. She didn't mean enough to me, and she chose her career. It was one time. Five years ago. We haven't spoke and it hasn't been spoken about since."

"So, Irene wasn't the only woman you…"

"Of course not. I'm not a Ken Doll, John."

"I didn't mean that. How many men have you…"

"I don't know. A few."

"A few too many or you really just don't keep count?"

"I've deleted most of it. Why, do you keep count?"

John uncomfortably coughed, "No."

"Oh, I know you do. And I don't mind. You're a man."

"How did you get Anthea to sleep with you? She won't even talk to me."

"Do you want to sleep with Anthea?"

"No, it's just-"

"It was easy. I have, uhm, moves, you know."

John chuckled. "Moves? You?"

"I can be charming, believe it or not."

"And it actually works?"

"Worked on you, didn't it?"

"No, Sherlock. Waltzing into my room naked and proposing we have sex because I wasn't getting any elsewhere worked on me. There was no charm."

"I'm not charming?" He made his eyes softer and, sort of, leaned over John. Not in an aggressive manor, in a seductive manor. He flashed a sweet smile, "So, John-"

"Stop it."

Sherlock backed off and took his drink, "See, I have charm."

"I still don't believe it."

"Test me."

"Ok, try to pick someone up. Someone in this bar." Sherlock leaned over to John. "Not me!"

"All right," Sherlock scanned the bar, "I bet I can get that woman's number."

See, there's that bet.

John grinned, "Deal. I bet you can't."

"What's the wager?"

"Milk for a month."

Sherlock flashed a sly grin, "Deal." He downed the last of his drink and left his booth.

He went to the bar and sat next to the woman. She looked at him and smiled. He was attractive, that was obvious. They shook hands and he ordered her a new drink.

They talked for a while. John wasn't exactly jealous, more annoyed that it was yet another bet that he won. It did bother John that Sherlock was insanely good at the things he was bad at. No way could he get a woman's number, especially not that woman.

But part of Sherlock's 'charm' was that he had no fear. He was bold, he said whatever he wanted. Often he said things without thinking first, which John also wondered how he had any 'charm'. He didn't bite his tongue very well.

The woman jotted her number down on a piece of napkin and gave it to Sherlock. He shook her hand again, she kissed his cheek, and he went back to his and John's booth.

"No more nagging me about milk." Sherlock said, sitting down and smiling, very pleased with himself.

"Fine, you win that one."

"I'd win every time, John."

"There's no way you know that."

"Fine, new bet."

"Ok, this time we time who can get a number quicker."

"Sounds fair. Our targets?"

"You get…" Sherlock scoped the bar, then he had a very wicked smile and looked back at John, "That guy."

"WHAT? That _guy? _No, no way."

"Why not?"

"I just-"

"Don't you have experience in this area?"

"Well, I wouldn't say much experience-"

"Deal stands. That guy. Who do I get?"

John looked around the bar. There weren't many options, but he found one man sitting alone in a corner and pointed, "That guy."

"That's not fair, he's not gay."

"How can you tell?"

"You just can."

"Deal stands, you get that guy."

"Fine, have it your way."

They set off to separate sides of the bar and put on the charm. John's was going well, very well.

"But isn't that guy your boyfriend?" the man asked John.

"Him? Oh, no he's just my flat mate."

John got the number in ten minutes.

Sherlock wasn't having much luck. The man, as it turns out, was gay, he just wasn't out yet. He was scared, very shy. Sherlock tried as hard as he could and it just wasn't working. Finally, Sherlock had nothing to gain or lose. He kissed the man. He kissed him very, very well.

John saw the whole thing. He saw Sherlock push his face at the man's, he saw the man uncomfortably squirm, then he saw the man's hands rest on the back of Sherlock's head. And that was the final straw. John marched over to the table and pulled Sherlock away.

"But, John, I didn't get a number."

"That's ok, Sherlock."

"Are you angry?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

They got outside and John blew up, "I said get a number, not kiss him!"

"It started out with the number, then-"

"You're such an idiot!" John stormed towards 221B and left Sherlock staring and confused.

"I was just-"

"No, you weren't 'just'. You didn't have to do that."

"Why are you so upset?"

"I don't want you to kiss anyone else, Sherlock! Is it that hard?"

"But I-"

"Oh, just shut up! You don't get it, you never will. You may pretend to have the charm of a real human but you'll never understand what it's like to feel like a real human!" John got to the top of the stairs, opened the door, went in, and slammed the door on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock stormed in and went to John. "I was just on the bet, ok? I'm not going to do anything with anyone else, don't you-"

"You _just _did!"

"But that was nothing, John. It was a bet."

"It was a stupid fucking bet. No more bets. Ever."

"Fine, John. Whatever you say. I was just having a little bit of fun-"

"You didn't have to kiss him. That hurt, Sherlock. It really did."

Sherlock went to John. He wrapped his arms around John's neck and pulled him close. John's arms reluctantly went around Sherlock, and once there he squeezed him tight.

"I'm sorry, John."

"Just don't, again. I want you to be," John swallowed, afraid, "Just mine."

Sherlock smiled, "I can do that."

"Really? Because we haven't really-"

"No, John. I'm your boyfriend and you are my boyfriend. Just each other's."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course."

They kissed in the middle of the living room, something they'd done many times as lovers, but never as boyfriends. And that's how they ended the feud of monogamy and betting.


	26. Chapter 26

John likes Christmas. He likes all holidays, actually. Sherlock doesn't care for holidays. Never has, probably never will. Holidays are something he just pushed into the back of his mind, unlike the Solar System. He wanted to remember his childhood holidays, and from his and John's first Christmas together on, he wanted to remember.

Their first Christmas together began rocky.

Rocky?

It started out with an idiot and an ass.

"What the hell is that?" Sherlock The Ass said as he stepped into the living room the afternoon of December 13.

John The Idiot put down the blue ornament he was holding, "It's a Christmas tree."

"Why the hell is it in my living room?"

"Well, I-"

"Why the hell, John?"

John frowned, but didn't move. He gave Sherlock the annoyed look. "I like Christmas. Just because you don't doesn't mean I can't-"

"I never said I didn't like Christmas."

"What do you have against my tree, then?"

"It's a waste of time and space."

"That's really mean, Sherlock. I've been working at this all day."

"Are you serious?" Sherlock laugh whistled, "You've been doing this all day?"

"Yeah. What's so funny?"

"You're an idiot."

John frowned even further than before. "Ok, you don't have to be so mean."

"God, John, it's distracting me from insulting you any further."

"Alright, alright. Stop it."

"I really can't stop, John. It's awful. Just dreadful."

"Please stop, Sherlock."

"No wonder it took you all day. It's pathetic. You-"

"Shut up, just shut up! What is wrong with you? I wanted to do something nice for you, for us! And you insult my tree and I," John put the box of ornaments he was holding on the coffee table. Without looking at Sherlock, he went to the coat rack and put his coat on, "You're such an ass," he muttered at Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't look at John until John called him an ass. "John, I," he turned around and grabbed John's wrist.

John didn't say anything, he just left.

He returned on time for bed. Well, it was 3 AM and Sherlock was going to bed. Sherlock was actually very tired, and he had been waiting for John for a long time. He laid his head on John's pillow as he heard John's keys click in the doorknob.

He heard John sigh very loudly when he realized Sherlock didn't wait up for him.

He heard John flick the light switch on.

He heard John gasp.

Somehow, he felt John smile.

What John saw was an entirely decorated living room. Lights were hanging from the ceiling, across the mantle, across the windows. John's tree was finished and glowing. Garland was hanging from the frame of the kitchen entryway, it sparkled with the glow of the living room. It was Christmas.

John nearly ran up the stairs, tripping as he reached the landing. He opened the door of Sherlock's room and toed his shoes off, tiptoeing inside.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

"Hmmm?"

"Did you do all of that for me?" John was now standing over Sherlock and breathing down on him. Sherlock liked that.

He looked up into the face of John. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because I'm sorry."

"Thank you, sweetie." John smiled.

Sherlock smiled back, "You're welcome, John." He rolled over on his back and John climbed on top of him. "Oh, John," Sherlock looked up and John followed his gaze at the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling.

"You romantic fool."

"So, I'm not an ass anymore?"

"Of course you are, but for now I forgive you." John kissed Sherlock.

"Lucky me, then." Sherlock kissed John.

From then on, Sherlock did his best to make holidays with John special.


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock is very much not a tense or anxious person. He is often high strung, sometimes spastic, and _almost_ never just a bit wild, but tense or anxious he is not. Sherlock, over the years of his youth of being tense and anxious, has learned how to calm his nerves right at that first sign of getting nervous. He breaths deeper, trying to smooth his breathing. Sometimes he rubs his thumb against his index finger, but that might just be a habit now. Sometimes he accidentally lets out a lisp, which is a clear sign that he needs to calm down.

John, however, very much is tense and anxious. John comes complete with a full list of nervous ticks and tendencies.

First, that tongue of his never stays in his mouth.

Second, his lips pucker in _that way, _which as we know has changed to a deep kiss to Sherlock.

Third, he rocks from side to side without noticing. One might see him as simply shifting his weight off his bad leg, but Sherlock -who knows the leg this isn't real- knows that it's time to get John away from said anxiety.

Fourth, he is steady. When John's nervous he can stand, lay, sit, lean, walk, do anything perfectly still.

Fifth, his heart beats in a funny way. What a lot of people don't know, is the night he killed the cabbie, his heart was flying off the handle.

Sixth, he swear. Well, John swears anyway, but when he's anxious or tense, he swears a _hell _of a lot.

Seventh, he actually thinks clearer. A lot of people work well under pressure, and John sure is one of those people.

Eighth, those days that John just wakes up tense is the days he forgets to put socks on. And he is very much a socks kind of guy, whereas Sherlock is not. The missing socks irks him to no end, mostly because of what little control he has over himself.

Of course Sherlock notices when John's anxious. Of course he notices John's tongue, lips, weight shifting, and odd steadiness. Of course he notices the doctor's heart beating differently, John's uncharacteristically _more _swearing, John's even more uncharacteristically knowledge of everything under the sun. And of course he notices when John's socks are sitting on the edge of the bed because he failed to put them on before his shoes this morning.

Sometimes, when he's not with John and he knows John is tense, he sends John a text. And knowing John probably won't bother to reply, it might go something like this:

"John, my love, my life, please calm down. Nobody needs to be shot, or fought, or strangled today. You're anxious and I know that, but you need to take a deep breath. I realize you're probably more upset because you forgot your socks, but when you get home they'll be nice and warm for you, along with one of your jumpers. And hurry home, because I'll be sure to be waiting to calm you down. -SH"

When Sherlock is with John and John is tense, Sherlock takes the smaller man in his arms and hugs tight, letting John steady his breathing to match Sherlock's and allow his rapid heart rate to slow. Then, Sherlock simply asks, "What's wrong?" Because John knows Sherlock cares, he knows Sherlock wants to help and is being an uncharacteristic non-sociopath that wants nothing more than to make John happy.


	28. Chapter 28

John is mesmerized by a beautiful car, truck, SUV, motorcycle, airplane, helicopter, hell he's mesmerized by a clean, shiny TARDIS so long as it's something that'd get him from point A to point B. That's his manly thing, he likes transportation devises. He likes their build, frame, shape, size, color, and he likes to be in control of them.

Sherlock, on the other hand, hates them. He'd rather walk than ride in or on anything. It's not that he doesn't like to be in control. Oh god, he loves being in control of something that large or powerful. It's that he's -is it even true?- afraid of them. At any moment they could break or hit something else or generally just hurt you.

And Sherlock isn't often afraid of pain. No, things like that he can suppress. Often times he's been held captive, or injured, or in any general danger. It's that in a car or train or on a motorcycle, it's yours or another person's fault. Sherlock actually couldn't forgive himself for a long time if he put any other person in danger because of his poor driving skills, and he definitely would never forgive a pilot for putting him into a plain crash.

The fear of vehicles comes from when Sherlock was a kid. One of his earliest memories, he was three or four, was a time when his father took him to town to go to the zoo. Sherlock was so excited he couldn't sleep that night, he couldn't eat in the morning, and he could not stop bouncing off the walls in sheer excitement.

When Sherlock and his father got out to the cars, his father let his driver have the day off so it could be just him and Sherlock. They got in the car and went to town and everything was fine, until Sherlock was being so rowdy and wild in the backseat, his father was watching him in the rearview mirror while laughing hysterically.

What happened next, Sherlock doesn't remember. What he does remember is waking up some time later in a hospital being checked for further injuries than a few cuts and bruises and his throbbing headache. His father was all right, he had a large gash on his forehead from where he hit the windshield and his arm was bandaged from being pressed against his door.

From then on, Sherlock hasn't trusted any sort of transportation vehicle, even if he is in control of it.


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock has the "habit" of leaving he doors to 221B and to their flat unlocked. Sometimes wide open. Is he trustworthy that they won't get burgled? No. Is he too lazy to carry keys? Yes. Are his pants too tight to put the keys anywhere? Yes.

As I said before, Sherlock's broken into the flat before. Since Chapter 3, Sherlock's broken into the flat seventeen and a half times (the half came when he was _almost _through the window when Mrs. Hudson didn't recognize him, got scared, and hit him over the head with a large pan).

John gets very annoyed at this.

Particularly today.

When, just last week, Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock to lock up all the windows because of burglaries occurring on Baker Street.

And today, Sherlock has no way of getting into the flat and John is at work.

"No, I'm not going home to let you in."

"I have to go to the restroom, John."

"Go to Angelo's."

"But I'm not going to eat anything."

"What the heck does that matter? We're not paying customers when we are customers!"

"But…they…I…."

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"Nothing."

Silence.

"Oh…" John murmurs.

"What? What is it? Did you just deduce me?"

"How do you make that sound sexual?"

"I-I-I…"

"Stop stuttering, a lot of people can't use public restrooms."

"I," Sherlock clears his throat, "Really?"

"Yeah, it's pretty normal for you, considering you _taste _things at crime scenes."

"Oh. It's just that I don't think public restrooms are very sanitary."

"Neither is _licking _things at crime scenes."

"I see your point."

"Just come get my key."

"All the way at the hospital?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It's not to Narnia, it's twenty minutes away."

"I don't know if I can hold it."

"Either go to Angelo's, or get a cab."

Silence.

"Fine."

*Click*

John wasn't sure of whether or not Sherlock was going to go to Angelo's until Sherlock barged into Doctor Watson's exam room. The receptionist, Peggy, was right behind him.

"Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes is here!"

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you doing here?"

Sherlock said nothing. He dipped his long fingers into John's pocket, fished out the keys, swiftly kissed John's lips, and left. John's face was bright red, the 15-year-old boy he was examining was chuckling, and Peggy was flat angry. Peggy huffed and left the room after Sherlock, and the boy was still laughing at John.

"He's hot," the boy said to John.

John half chuckled and covered his face, "Heh, thank you."

Later, John and Sherlock were discussing some sort of negotiation to where Sherlock would carry keys.

"They're annoying."

"Wear more loose pants."

Sherlock glared at John.

"No, never mind."

"Just be home for me all the time."

"What? That's absurd."

"Then leave a door unlocked when you leave."

"No way!"

"Then let me unlock a window."

"Which one?"

"You pick."

John got a sly grin. "Bathroom."

"No, too small."

"I don't think so."

"What, do you want me to prove it?"

"Yup."

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was stuck in the bathroom window wearing nothing but jeans. As in, no underwear, either.

"What's stuck?"

"Belt loop."

"Can you-" John cut himself off.

"What?"

"Just…take your pants off."

"No."

"Then I might have to cut your pants."

"Can't you just knock the wall down?"

John gave Sherlock the annoyed look.

"Fine, just, help me."

John took hold of Sherlock's torso as Sherlock shimmied out of his black jeans. As he was kicking them off, the left pant leg ripped. Sherlock yelled out in anger and frustration, John tried to tell him it was just a pair of jeans.

"These are my favorite ones!"

"You know how this could have been avoided?"

Sherlock got to his feet, completely naked, and angry. He scowled at John then left the bathroom.

"Fine!" he called to John as he was about to slam their bedroom door, "I'll carry my keys!"

John smiled to himself. Mission accomplished.


	30. Chapter 30

Unlike John, Sherlock gets jealous.

And I mean _jealous, _as in, "Touch John, so much as look at that man with a glimmer in your eye and I'll put you through that wall. Yeah, that one there, the brick one. I will do it, Dimmock. I do not recommend you test me."

Because unlike every other man on earth, Sherlock sees. He sees Dimmock and all the others leering at _his _colleague, _his _friend, _his _date, _his _boyfriend, _his, his, his. _

And it's not just the men that Sherlock's worried about. It's all of them, all of the human race (that are legal, of course). John's been with both men and women, he can be pleasured in many ways by both, and he gets along well with women. It's not that ridiculous for Sherlock to get jealous, he has reasons, but it's not like John's going to leave him.

Ever.

But it's not like Sherlock knows that.

Sadly.

John doesn't really get jealous, not all that much. Sherlock is desirable, oh hell yes he is. John's catches glimpses of people checking his boyfriend out, but John is positive Sherlock would never leave or cheat on him.

Mostly.

John's secure in his relationship and trusts Sherlock all the time.

Eh, almost.

"Sherlock, 'It's for a case,' will not make me forgive you for sleeping with someone else."

John knows how sexy Sherlock is. He knows how lucky he is that Sherlock's all his, but he also knows of all the onlookers and the young girls that stare at him and damn well drool.

Really, ladies?

So, I guess it isn't a stretch to say John does get jealous. He, as well as his boyfriend, is very well prepared to put anyone through a wall, you just name which wall.


	31. Chapter 31

John's always wanted a brother.

And sometimes

_S o m e t i m e s _

John thinks of Sherlock as his younger brother.

Is that why John disagreed to being his date?

Eh, one could think.

Is that why John felt the need to protect the younger man?

Eh, maybe.

Is that why John felt automatically inclined to befriend this younger man?

Eh, who knows?

Is that why John _giggled _the first time he and Sherlock kissed?

Of course it was.

Usually, as in always, Sherlock likes to hear John giggle -especially at crime scenes- but that giggle made him cringe so hard he wanted to cry.

"I am hardly your brother!"

"That's not what I mean, I mean if I ever had a brother I'd want him to be like you!"

"What? Desirable? Sexy? Yearning with want of your body so badly it physically and mentally hurts?"

"No, no! I mean smart, brilliant, someone who gets me!"

"Oh, John…" Sherlock stormed into his room and slammed the door.

They didn't talk for four days after that, and they didn't kiss again for twenty-seven days after that. John wanted to, he tried, but each time he got close enough to smell Sherlock, he'd giggle. And Sherlock would get angry.

Finally, at the end of those twenty-seven days, Sherlock pushed John into the wall and before John could so much as think about giggling, Sherlock's tongue was on him, in him, caressing and tasting and examining and taking data.

Sherlock broke away and whispered, "Would your brother do that?"

"Oh god," John sighed.

Sherlock's hands ran all over John's body. "Would your brother do this?" he lifted John's shirt off and licked down his chest.

"Sh-Sherlock," John panted.

"Never say that again. You giggle one more time, I bite your tongue off. Now shut up and pay attention." Sherlock dropped to his knees, pulling Johns' pajama pants down with him.


	32. Chapter 32

John likes to cook, and he's good at it. One of his many thinking skills is thinking of new, unique dishes that would tickle his taste buds in all the right places.

The thing is, the one person he cooks for might be the most picky human on all of earth. He's even more picky than infants with formula or three year olds with sweets.

And Sherlock knows the right things to say when John's cooking.

"Oh, John, that smells like insert-disgusting-bodily-fluid-here."

Or

"Hey, that looks like something I _found _at Bart's the other day."

Or

"I wonder if that tastes like whatever fungus was growing on that tree the other day, remember, John? The one that made me sick for days?"

When one of these lines comes out, John picks up whatever he's made and tosses it in the garbage, then turns to look at Sherlock, who has a very pleased look on his face.

"Ok, ok, what do you want?"

"Chinese."

John hangs his head and put his coat on.

What Sherlock does like John to cook, well, bake, is cake. And cookies. And cupcakes. And lemon bars. And fudge. And anything, _anything _sweet. John could pick up a rock, sprinkle some sugar on it, hand it to Sherlock and watch the great detective attempt to take a bite out of it.

John is really good a baking. He uses the same cooking skills to perfect his treats, and uses the treats to perfect Sherlock. Once, John went on a baking spree and made two cakes, three kinds of cookies, and two dozen cupcakes, all of which were completely gone in two weeks, give or take a day. Sherlock was so happy with this, he did everything John wanted and asked for. John was so happy with this, he considered quitting his job as a doctor to pursue a career in pastry arts.

That is, until Sherlock became sick for days after.

"You do this every time, sweetie. You make yourself sick."

"I wouldn't be sick if you didn't have to bake so damn much."

"I'm sorry I get bored."

"Shoot something, like me!"

"Been there, done that."

"Oh, shut u-" Sherlock was cut off by the sound of his own vomit.

John rubbed his back and gave him tea, hoping it'd all go away, but it didn't go away for four days.

Needless to say, John didn't bake again for a very, very long time.


	33. Chapter 33

John hates ice cream. It's cold, it's sticky, it hurts his teeth. Fortunately, frappacino's from Starbucks are just as good. Did I say fortunately? Well, it was fortunate for about seven days. In those seven days, John consumed sixteen mocha fraps., and he loved every moment of it. Sherlock liked it too, because John was awake and alert and very, very happy.

Yes, for seven days John thought he had found the greatest thing on earth. Oh, how the man was wrong. On the eighth day, John woke up clenching his stomach and hoping, _praying _for something to come along that'd kill him right then and there. His stomach was in so many knots, John couldn't stand.

"Sherlock!" John called.

"What is it?" Sherlock called back.

"Come here!"

Sherlock came and saw John wrapping around himself and moaning with pain.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, alarmed.

"My stomach, I can't move."

"Are you-what do you need me to do?"

"Get a bin, I think I'm going to be sick."

And John was sick. For thirty-two hours he flushed his system clean. John's never been that sick in his life. He took pride in the fact that he hadn't thrown up since before the war, but that was all shot to hell now. He felt awful. Then, he felt awful because he threw up on one of Sherlock's shirts, a pair of his shoes, three towels, and in the kitchen sink.

"It's ok, John. Far worse has been in that sink."

"What could be worse than vomit?" As Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, John snapped, "Do not answer that question."

Sherlock rubbed John's belly and chest. "Do you feel better?"

"I guess."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Probably not."

Sherlock looked shocked, almost hurt. "There's nothing I can do for my hurting boyfriend?"

"No. You can't make soup or tea."

Sherlock looked sad. "How about I just rub instead?"

"I guess it'll do."

The boys didn't leave their bed for sixteen hours after that. John was physically drained from all of that, and Sherlock, who couldn't do anything else for John, found one thing he could do.


	34. Chapter 34

Children dislike John. Children love Sherlock. This really did shock John, considering John's a far better caretaker than his partner. It all makes sense, though. Kids like calm people, and for the most part Sherlock is far more calm than John.

This did hurt John's feelings a little bit. Last summer when Harry had a baby, Sherlock and John went to visit when Harry got home.

Sherlock wasn't very interested. He asked weird questions which caused everyone to just stare at him until he shut up and sat in the corner.

An hour and a half later, the baby was crying and nobody knew how to stop her; she wasn't hungry, she didn't need to be changed, she wouldn't go to sleep. Finally, after an hour, Sherlock stood and shouted, "Oh, for God's sakes!", took the baby from Harry and rocked her to sleep.

Everyone stared. Rightfully so. Sherlock doesn't like human contact, adult human contact, you can imagine the shock when they all saw him rock a _newborn _to sleep.

"What?" he snapped.

Everyone's eyes were still round and probably dry for not blinking, assuming once they blink the whole dream sequence will go away.

"Oh, it's not that hard, really. All of you people that a thousand nervous ticks that babies recognize. Good luck with that, Harry." Sherlock smirked, caressing the baby's head.

Harry stared from Sherlock to John. John stared at Sherlock.

"Oh, stop. Really. I'm good with kids."

"But you're-"

"So?"

John swallowed. His heart was leaping out of his chest. This man, this magnificent man that can't function talking to a group of adults from Scotland Yard is cradling a newborn, rocking her back and forth while she soundly sleeps after an hour and a half of fighting everyone around her. This baby was stubborn, as is her mother, but this man…John's just in disbelief.

"Stop gaping at me, John. I have two nephews. They were babies once."

John wished and longed for that to be their daughter, for Sherlock to be caressing the head and blanket of their own baby that had Sherlock's black curls and John's blue eyes. Impossible? Of course. But more impossible than either of them actually getting pregnant is John convincing Sherlock to _adopt. _

"Can we not have this conversation now, John?"

"Wh-what conversation?"

"You have drool on your chin and you're staring at me and a baby. We'll talk about this later."

Harry stared at John. "I still can't-you, Sherlock." Harry looked at Sherlock, "Gay, ex-junkie that chases criminals and uses nicotine patches in substitute of rest or caffeine, holding my baby, that I couldn't get to sleep, that Doctor-I-Invaded-Afghanistan-Watson couldn't get to sleep, that I probably won't be able to get back to sleep ever again! You're never leaving, got it? You're staying with me now."

"What? No! Take her back!" Sherlock made to give the baby back, but John intercepted her and cradled her. In seconds, the baby shot awake and wailed hard and loud.

"Ok, ok, take her back!" John shouted, handing the baby back to Sherlock. She calmed instantly.

"Why are you being weird, John? Are you jealous that babies like me?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, I didn't think asking you was that easy."

"Yes, I am jealous! I'm a _doctor _and you're a sociopath!"

"You're tense, especially now. Of course she doesn't want you to hold her, I can feel the anxious waves radiating off of you."

John and Sherlock stayed at Harry's for the next six hours. Finally, Harry said she understood what Sherlock meant and they were allowed to leave. They didn't speak the whole way home, but when they got up to 221B, Sherlock took his shots.

"Ok, I realize you're both jealous that you suck at taking care of babies and you're angry because I can't and won't give you children, but you can't be angry with me. At least not for the first. That is your doing. Actually, they both are. You fell in love with me."

"I know, Sherlock, and God help me I will never fall out of love with you, even if I try. But it does hurt, and you need to understand that."

"Which one?"

"Well, both. But the second one. It's like you-"

"Taunted you with it?"

"Yes." John's face drooped into a very sad frown. He rubbed his eyes in frustration at himself. It wasn't Sherlock's fault. They've had this conversation.

"I love you, John. And I'm very sorry. I just couldn't do it."

"I know, I know. I love you, too. I'm sorry."

They hugged tight for a few minutes, then Sherlock spoke. "John?"

"Yes, love?"

"Where's Gladstone?"

"Oh, fuck!" John ran out of the apartment faster than Sherlock's ever seen. As it turns out, John forgot at the dog at the 'dog-sitter' from before he went to work this morning until now, which has been almost 18 hours. Sherlock chuckled, ok, he laughed. When John got back he wasn't amused. He held the dog close to him and whispered he was sorry, and when Sherlock laughed he'd snap a quick, "Shut the hell up."


	35. Chapter 35

One obvious difference between our boys is their style of clothing. Sherlock, for a long time, has liked to look nice and proper, and by that he wears those suits or at least a suit jacket to go with his expensive jeans. He thinks this is comfortable clothing because (yes he knows) that he fucking rocks those suits. They make him confident and add to the dramatics of his life.

John likes to wear his jeans and jumpers or long sleeved shirts or button ups on occasion. He likes to be comfortable, too, and those fluffy jumpers are very comfy. He doesn't like to dress up much, he's worn a suit a handful of times since being with Sherlock and he's worn his dress uniform even less than that, but if he has to he will.

John's favorite part of getting dressed up is the attention he receives from Sherlock. Like any other human that likes men, Sherlock is one that has a kink for sharp dressed men (maybe that's why he's a sharp dressed man?), but since he has eyes for John Watson and John Watson only, he _really _appreciates when John's dressed up.

Sherlock's favorite time of year for clothing is Christmastime because they go to his mother's Christmas parties at his childhood home. This gives Sherlock the chance to _insist _John dress up and to show John off to the family that never thought he'd get _anyone, _no less this gorgeous human that looks damn fine in a black suit and dark blue tie.

So people stare at John as Sherlock pulls him along the crowd to say hello to Mummy and take a second or two to gloat at Mycroft, who showed up alone. Sherlock's aunts, female cousins, that one male cousin Sherlock himself isn't sure of, and those few teenage family friends nearly want to applaud because _Damn, Sherlock, well done. _

Then the night nearly ends and Sherlock tells everyone goodnight before retiring upstairs in his old bedroom. Then Sherlock gets to pull John by the deep blue tie to the bed and Sherlock momentarily thanks whoever created dress clothes.

_***I didn't realize people still read this. So uh, here's one. Long overdue. : ) **_


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